tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-248566342024-03-13T19:58:46.758-04:00My Vietnam StoriesBTExpresshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15804441027821927177noreply@blogger.comBlogger24125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24856634.post-1143495294519231682006-03-26T16:30:00.003-05:002011-11-10T17:45:25.955-05:00Chapter 1: Drafted - May 6, 1968<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/1600/File0001-2.1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/320/File0001-2.1.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>I was drafted into the United States Army on May 6, 1968 at the ripe old age of 19 years, 6 months and 2 days. Government policy at the time was to draft all men into the military at 19 ½ years of age if they hadn’t already joined or had a deferment of some kind. I almost joined earlier that year, but backed out to take my chances with the draft.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">Although draftees were a small minority (16%) in the U.S. armed forces, they comprised the bulk of infantry riflemen in Vietnam (88% in 1969). They accounted for more than half the army's battle deaths. Because of student and other deferments, the draft and the casualties fell disproportionately upon working-class youths, black and white.</span><br /><br />My father and stepmother drove me down to the draft board office in Smithtown NY that morning where I checked in and was put on a bus for the ride to Fort Hamilton in Brooklyn for induction. I remember staring out the window during the ride into Brooklyn wondering if I would live through this adventure and make it back home again after it was all over.<br /><br />We arrived in at Fort Hamilton about an hour or so later, where we were interviewed and given a short physical. They asked a lot of questions to try and find out if we were medically fit, gay or mentally challenged. Not surprisingly, some were turned down. Those that were accepted, me included, were sent into in a room with lines painted on the floor and a large American flag in front. We were told to line up along the lines and then “asked” to step forward to "voluntarily" be sworn in.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">At the final phase of the induction process, a military recruiting officer will order the Registrant, and any other Registrants present, to "line up on the line.” (a line, or several lines, is/are painted on the floor). A military recruiting officer will then order all those "joining the army,” (or whatever) to “take one step forward” … THOSE WHO LINE UP AS ORDERED AND TAKE ONE STEP FORWARD JUST "VOLUNTEERED!" BY TAKING ONE STEP FORWARD, YOU CONVERT YOUR "REGISTRANT" STATUS INTO THAT OF AN "INDUCTEE"!!!!<br /><br />The oath is administered:"I, (state your name) do solemnly swear that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the Constitution of the United States of America and will defend it against all enemies foreign and domestic, and will obey the orders of the President and the officers appointed over me, so help me God."</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/1600/Army%20logo.0.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/200/Army%20logo.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>Well, that was it, I was now the property of the United States Army. We were then lead out of the room and broken down into smaller groups depending where we were assigned. I was assigned to Fort Jackson in South Carolina, where ever that was. My group got on a bus for the ride to JFK airport in Queens. When our plane landed in Columbia South Carolina a few hours later, we were met by someone from the Army and put on another bus for the ride to Fort Jackson where the fun really started.<br /><br />As soon as the bus pulled to a stop in front of the Reception Center, the meanest man I’ve ever come in contact with up to that point in my young life, jumps on the bus and starts yelling and screaming orders. “OFF THE BUS! DOUBLE TIME! LINE UP!" and all kind of crap like that.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/1600/File0005.1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/200/File0005.0.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>I spent one week at the reception center where we were given haircuts, tested a lot and were issued our uniforms. Then it was off to 8 weeks of basic training (where I met much more mean men). Next it was 8 weeks of Advanced Individual Training (AIT) not to far from where I took basic training (the men were a lot less mean here, but not nice by a long shot) where we were actually taught to be infantryman. I graduated from AIT with the rank of PFC, issued my orders for Vietnam and then given 30 days leave.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/1600/Vietnam%20Trip%20%20Map.1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/400/Vietnam%20Trip%20%20Map.0.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>When my leave was over I caught a plane out of JFK airport in Queens bound for San Francisco California. I spent one night in a hotel room crammed in with about 8 other guys. I slept on the floor that night. The next morning I reported to the Oakland Army Terminal to begin my processing for deployment to Vietnam. I spent a few days in Oakland before getting my orders and then boarded another bus ride to the airport where we boarded a Flying Tiger Airlines plane and headed out across the Pacific on a 25 hour plane ride.<br /><br />Our first stop was in Hawaii where they refueled and changed crews. We were sent to a deserted terminal while this happened, where they could keep an eye on us. When we got back on the plane, attendance was taken and one guy had bailed. Next stop was Midway Island for refueling. Midway is literally just an airstrip in the middle of a lot of small islands. We were suppose to stop in Guam next, but a typhoon diverted us to the Philippines instead. Here they refueled and changed flight crews. The whole time up to now, we flew with the sun in daylight, but the rest of the way was in the dark.<br /><br />Things got pretty quite on this last leg of our journey because reality was setting in fast. I did manage to sleep a little, but mostly I just did a lot of thinking and trying to imagine what was in store. Once over Vietnam, the stewardess announced we were over the country and to wake up and get ready for landing. I remember looking out the window; I had a window seat, and seeing the vast darkness and every once in a while, a small point of light.<br /><br />It wasn’t long before we were landing at Bien Hoa airbase in Vietnam which about 20 miles northeast of Saigon. The date was October 6, 1968 somewhere around 11:00 at night if I remember correctly. Just before getting off the plane, the flight crew thanked us for flying Flying Tiger Airlines and said something like “We hope to see all of you back with us in a year for the ride home”. We all looked at each other wondering which of us here wouldn’t make that flight back to the "World".<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/1600/Bien%20Hoa.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/400/Bien%20Hoa.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a> <span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">Bien Hoa Air Base was located 20 mi (30 km) NE of Saigon and near the infamous LBJ (Long Bien jail), which was the in-country military prison compound. Bien Hoa was also a huge munitions storage area. The base itself was upgraded from an old French post, and still had many of the old French buildings and small concrete bunkers scattered around the perimeter.</span>BTExpresshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15804441027821927177noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24856634.post-1143495575456189102006-03-25T16:38:00.002-05:002008-02-25T13:31:03.518-05:00Chapter 2: My On the Job Training Starts<span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:100%;" ><br /></span><span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:100%;" ><span style="font-size:100%;">Bien Hoa Airbase</span><br /></span>http://www.vhpamuseum.org</span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/1600/Bien%20Hoa.5.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/400/Bien%20Hoa.4.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br />When the door of the plane was opened, we disembarked and began walking down the stairs to the tarmac. We went from the comfortable air-conditioned plane into the very hot, muggy, oppressive heat and became instantly drenched in sweat. The air was thick with so many new smells and sounds. There were the never-ending sounds of jets and choppers taking off and landing and the trucks and jeeps that were always on the move. There were so many new smells permeating the air but the one I remember most, the one smell that these some 37 years later instantly brings me back to that time, was the smell of diesel fuel. To this day, whenever I catch a whiff of diesel, I am instantly taken back to that time and transformed into that young soldier again.<br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">http://www.gingerb.com</span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/1600/rocket%20attack.0.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/320/rocket%20attack.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br />We were walking toward a building still in awe of what was all around us, when all of a sudden we heard an explosion, then another. Someone started yelling, “Get inside, get inside! Double time, double time!" We were rushed inside the building to a holding area. “OMG! What the fuck is happening?” I said to no one in particular as I ran for the building. Once inside, I saw a lot of people just going about their business like nothing was happening. No one was panicking, its as if no one even knew what was going on outside.<br /><br />“Okay, calm down!” someone in green jungle fatigues yells out. “It’s over now, so calm down!” Sure enough, it was over, it ended as quickly as it began. The man in the fatigues explained that the airport had been under attack by rockets, that these kinds of attacks happened almost everyday, sometimes more than once. “You’ll get used to it,” he said. "Yeah, right", I thought, "I’ll never get used to that." Little did I know that really I would get used to it just like he said we would.<br /><br />Off to one side in this holding area was a group of men that were waiting to catch the plane we just got off. They made through the year and now where going home. I remember thinking, would I make it back here in a year to catch that flight back? No time to think, time for another bus ride.<br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-size:100%;">90th Replacement Center at Long Binh</span><br /></span></span>http://saito56.blogster.com/</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/1600/90th%20replacement%20center.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/320/90th%20replacement%20center.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>They took us outside where we boarded some more buses. These had screens over all the windows just in case someone tried to throw a hand grenade or something like that through one of them. The bus took us to the 90th Replacement Center in Long Binh where we went through in processing that lasted most of the night. We were assigned a bunk to catch a little sleep and were up early to eat breakfast and then stand in formation. Formation was held a couple of times a day to assign us to our units. I was assigned to the 25th Infantry Division at Cu Chi.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/1600/25%20logo.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/200/25%20logo.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br />When my name was called, I was put on a C-130 cargo plane for the flight to the base camp in Cu Chi. It was like a small city. It had every type of facility there was in small cities; swimming pools, bars, slot machines in the bars, a hospital, stores and even saunas. I remember thinking why in the world would they have saunas in such a hot, muggy place? "(massages,hee hee!)<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span><span>25th Division Base Camp at Cu Chi<br /></span></span></div><span><span><span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/1600/CuChiAerial-1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/320/CuChiAerial-1.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>I spent a week in Cu Chi going through in-processing and for some specialized training. This training was to teach us the things we needed to know that were not taught in basic training and AIT, like standing "real" guard duty and crawling through a tunnel. After that week at Cu Chi, I was assigned to the 2nd platoon, Bravo Company, 2nd Battalion, 12 Infantry, 25th Infantry Division; B 2/12 as they called it. A group of us got on a supply chopper for the flight to Fire Support Base Pershing, eight miles northwest of Cu Chi in the middle of some rice paddies somewhere.<br /><br />FSB Pershing was a battalion size base camp with four companies of infantry and an artillery and mortar battery. I wasn't at Pershing very long, about a week or so, so I didn't see very much of it. Here are a few pictures I found on the internet at http://www.212veterans.org.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Landing Zone Outside FSB Pershing</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/1600/Landing%20at%20FSB%20Pershing.5.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/320/Landing%20at%20FSB%20Pershing.3.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:100%;" >View of FSB Pershing</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/1600/FSB%20Pershing.5.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/320/FSB%20Pershing.2.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">105mm Howitzer</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/1600/105mm%20howitzer.1.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/320/105mm%20howitzer.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">4 1/2 Inch Mortar</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/1600/Mortor%20copy.0.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/320/Mortor%20copy.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Mess Tent<br /></span><span style="font-size:78%;">http://www.gingerb.com</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/1600/breakfast-1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/320/breakfast-1.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/1600/bunker.0.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/320/bunker.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>Just before dark that first night, I was sent over to man a bunker, pretty much like the one in the this picture. As you can see, bunkers are really nothing more that a pile of sandbags with a small doorway and a few small holes to look out of. The bunker I was sent to, was usually manned by a few guys in another platoon, but they were sent out on a night ambush patrol that night. There was no one else in it at the time. I was told someone else would be over in a little while and we were to take turns keeping watch that night. That's how every night was, you take turns sleeping and stand watch.<br /><br />Now picture this, here I am on my first night out in the field, about a million miles from home, in only God knows where, inside a pile of sandbags in total darkness, staring out through a small hole in the front of this pile of sandbags. Since this my first night out in the field, I had no idea what to expect. I was truly scared to death.<br /><br />Not long goes by and there was a loud explosion somewhere behind my bunker. Next thing I know, flares are going off in the sky lighting the entire area of the perimeter up to the woods.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/1600/flares.0.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/320/flares.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a> I scan the horizon searching for the enemy but didn't see any. Then there's another explosion; I’m practically shitting in my pants about now. Just then, someone dashes inside the bunker. Thank God, I’m not alone anymore. I look over quickly at the guy, but don’t see him carrying a weapon.<br /><br />"Where’s your weapon?”<br /><br />“I don’t carry one, I’m a medic.”<br /><br />Oh, that’s great, this guy has no weapon. But then I thought, “Oh well, if I get wounded at least there’s a medic close by."<br /><br />I look back outside through that little hole in the front of the bunker and Doc looks out of the second little hole. We keep our eyes glued to those little the holes. It all stopped after about 4 or 5 explosions.<br /><br />It wasn’t very long before I heard a helicopter land in the landing zone in the picture above. I was to find out the next day, that the chopper was a medivac and the explosions I heard were from a mortar attack. Someone came by a few minutes later to see if we were alright. He also brought a radio and told us that about every half-hour, someone would call our position and we were to respond with “Sitrap negative”, meaning no trouble, or “Sitrap positive” if there was any. Then he leaves us. The enemy never did attack that night, and the rest of the night it was quiet.<br /><br />While I was at Pershing that short time, these kinds of attacks happened pretty much every night, but with mortars that never even hit inside the base camp. The enemy would guess the range from somewhere beyond the tree line and fire a few shells in our general direction, always landing out in the rice paddies somewhere. After a few days, I got used to them like the guy in fatigues at Bien Hoa said we would and just learned to accept them as a fact of life over there.</span></span></span>BTExpresshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15804441027821927177noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24856634.post-1143495921061548852006-03-24T16:44:00.002-05:002008-02-25T13:31:15.156-05:00Chapter 3: The Memorial ServiceJust after dawn the next morning, the guys that usually man the bunker I was in, got back and I went back to the bunker I was assigned to yesterday. Everyone was getting up and getting ready for the day. I had absolutely no clue what to do, no clue at all. I guess the “veterans” saw my look of confusion and took me under their wings and showed me the ropes. We washed up and then went to breakfast.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Mess Tent</span><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">http://www.gingerb.com</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/1600/breakfast-1.1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/200/breakfast-1.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>During breakfast we found out that there were a couple of guys killed in the attack last night, I think three, and a few wounded. They said one guy died while he was taking a leak and when the first rocket hit, it killed him. They also told us there was a mandatory memorial service after chow, not like we had to be force to attend.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Memorial Service</span><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">http://www.pieceuniquegallery.com</span><br /></div> <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/1600/Memorial%20Service.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/200/Memorial%20Service.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>The service was really a frightening thing to experience for me, something like going to your first funeral when you’re young. You know, one-minute you’re here and the next minute your not. The only difference with being in war and being home is that in war, your “family” replaces you pretty easily, but at home, it’s not that simple.<br /><br />Watching the memorial service made me wonder whom I had replaced and if they would be holding a memorial service for me someday. Someone told that first day, that the rifle I was issued was owned by a guy that was killed before he even got to use it. I just laughed that off because I figured how could anyone tell the difference between all those M-16s. But then I learned that not very long before I got there, a couple weeks maybe, our unit had a lot of casualties and was short handed and that’s why I was sent there, they were short handed.<br /><br />After the service I was introduced to the guys in my platoon, I wish I could remember some of their names, but after all these years, I just can’t remember them. I have some of them written down somewhere, I'll see if I can find them. I was was also given my assignment. I was as one of the two ammo bearers for the guy that carried the M-60 machine gun. As ammo bearer, I carried a lot of stuff. I carried 400 rounds for the M-60, the ammo magazines for my M-16, a couple of hand grenades and a couple smoke grenades. I also carried an M-72 LAW. Wait, that’s not all. There were also at least 2 canteens of water, more if you could find an extra canteen, a first aid bandage, C-rations and cigarettes. (I think practically everyone smoked) I looked something like the guy in the pictures except I was not this tidy and no jewelry, well except for dog tags. Jewelry could get you killed.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/1600/soldier%20front-1.1.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/320/soldier%20front-1.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a> <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/1600/soldier%20back-1.0.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/320/soldier%20back-1.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /></div><br />As ammo bearer, I was to stay close to the machine gunner while out on patrol, usually right behind him. Typically, when there was any action, the machine gunner went over to where the fire came from and you know what this meant, I had to be right with him. There was really only one time that that happened but I’ll leave that story for another chapter as that didn’t happen while I was at Pershing.BTExpresshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15804441027821927177noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24856634.post-1143496062653313842006-03-23T16:46:00.002-05:002008-02-25T13:31:27.360-05:00Chapter 4: The Typical DayBefore I get into more of my adventures, I thought I would give you an idea what a typical 24 hour day was like for me.<br /><br />Most days and nights were uneventful. We’d get up, eat breakfast, walked patrol during the day, stand watch for a couple of hours at night and every few nights, go out on night ambush. Well, except for the almost nightly rockets or mortars while I was at FSB Pershing, but I already told you about that.<br /><br />First let me tell you about a patrol.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">Pa·trol n 1: a detachment used for security or reconnaissance 2: the activity of going around or through an area at regular intervals for security purposes 3: a group that goes through a region at regular intervals for the purpose of security v : maintain the security of by carrying out a control [syn: police]</span><br /><br />We’d get up not too long after it got light out, clean up, eat breakfast and get a briefing on what we were going to do that day. Then we’d pack up a day’s worth of the supplies we’d need and then head off on patrol. We’d usually just start walking the patrol, but sometimes we’d have to patrol somewhere too far away to walk to, because enemy activity was observed in an area or something like that.. In that case, we would taken by helicopter and then be dropped off and then we’d walk patrol.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Chopper ride</span><br /></div> <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/1600/Chopper%20ride.0.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/400/Chopper%20ride.0.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br />Patrol consisted typically of walking around searching for things and looking at stuff (search and destroy). We’d walk for awhile, stop for a short break and then walk some more until it was time for lunch. Lunch was always a picnic of the always delicious box of C rations. After lunch we’d walk around somemore, take another short and then head back to base camp. Patrol kind of reminded me of exploring the woods and swamps like I did growing up in Florida except in Florida I didn’t carry a rifle and all that other stuff I described in the last chapter.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Walking Patrol</span><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">http://storiesfromvietnam.com</span><br /></div> <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/1600/Night%20Ambush.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/400/Night%20Ambush.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Heating up the C-rations over some C-4 if you could get any</span><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">http://www.212veterans.org/</span><br /></div> <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/1600/c%20rations.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/400/c%20rations.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Once back in camp, we’d spend the time getting cleaned up, cleaning our weapons and writing letters and stuff like that until dinner. Dinner was always really very good (but then I liked cafeteria food in school so maybe I’m not the best judge). It was always hot and there was plenty of it. We always each got a quart of milk to drink. After dinner we’d retire to our bunkers and hang out before bedtime.<br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Hanging out</span><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">http://www.212veterans.org/</span><br /></div> <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/1600/Hanging%20out%20in%20camp.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/400/Hanging%20out%20in%20camp.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Then there was watch.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">Watch v. watched, watch·ing, watch·es v. intr. 1. To look or observe attentively or carefully; be closely observant: watching for trail markers. 2. To look and wait expectantly or in anticipation: watch for an opportunity. 3. To act as a spectator; look on: stood by the road and watched. 4. To stay awake at night while serving as a guard, sentinel, or watcher. 5. To stay alert as a devotional or religious exercise; keep vigil.</span><br /><br />When it started to get dark, we took turns standing watch for the night. First watch was always the best because once it was over, you got uninterrupted sleep for the rest of the night. The last watch sucked the most because you had to get up two hours early. Not much else to say about standing watch except it was usually boring and hopefully no one fell asleep while on watch.<br /><br />My least favorite thing to do was go out on night ambush.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">Am·bush n. 1. The act of lying in wait to attack by surprise. 2. A sudden attack made from a concealed position. 3. a. Those hiding in order to attack by surprise. b. The hiding place used for this. 4. A hidden peril or trap.</span><br /><br />I hated night ambush more than anything we did. Every few days after we got back from patrol, one of the squads in our platoon (a squad is about 10-12 men), would go out on night ambush. After supper, we’d pack our poncho liner (sort of a small comforter used like a blanket to keep warm), restock anything we’d used during the day like water, ammo, etc, just not food, and head off to set up an ambush.<br /><br />Officially we’d go to the assigned place, set up a few claymore mines all around us and wait for the bad guys to come by. If they did, we’d shoot at them. Unofficially, we’d usually just go to one of our favorite hiding spots, which was anywhere where we hoped the bad guys would not show up. Then we’d set up the claymores and for the rest of the night be real quiet until it got light out. I was told to never shoot first if I saw anyone. That way, hopefully they’d not see us and just walk on by. The reason we did this was because you never knew if the guys you saw were just a small patrol or the point for a battalion of NVA soldiers. See why we stayed quiet? We’d take turns sleeping and then just after daybreak we’d pack up and go back to camp and spend the rest of the day off duty doing pretty much what ever you wanted to do.<br /><br />Look, I know I’ve over simplified this whole thing and many combat veterans will find fault with my descriptions, but that really was pretty much what it had been like most days for me. Mixed in amongst those days were the days that I’d wished had never come or would hurry and be over. The days I feared for my life and the lives of those around me. The days I trudged through the rice paddies in the muck and mire. The days I baked in the hot sun or shivered in the cold nights. The days and nights the rain drenched me. The days I was shot at and the days someone was wounded or killed. There were also a lot of good days too. Like the day I took a trip into the division base camp at Cu Chi for the fake tooth ache and the day we bought some scotch from a local and drank it with grape soda. Those are the days I will try to relive for you in the coming chapters.BTExpresshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15804441027821927177noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24856634.post-1143496160257870662006-03-22T16:48:00.002-05:002008-02-25T13:29:36.618-05:00Chapter 5: Some Miscellaneous Stuff at FSB PershingI didn’t really know where these next few things fit into my stories while I was at Pershing, so I just figured I would put them together in this post.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Latrine Duty</span><br />When we didn’t have to walk patrol during the day, we just hung around the base camp and tended to daily chores. Things like laundry, writing letters, reading, cleaning our weapons, things like that. There was also one job that everyone took turns doing but didn’t enjoy for obvious reasons, burning shit. Yeah, you read this right, burning shit. The first time I had to do it, I just helped and someone showed me what to do.<br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">www.landscaper.net</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/1600/burning%20shit%201.0.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/320/burning%20shit%201.0.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>The latrines were like a typical outhouse with half a 55-gallon drum under the seat to catch, well, you know, shit. When the drum was near full, some lucky guy (since I was new in town, this times it was me) would get to go behind the latrine and drag the drum out and off to one side, the downwind side hopefully. Then he’d pour a little diesel fuel into the drum and set it on fire.<br /><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-size:78%;">www.americanbusinessllc.com</span><br /></div> <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/1600/burning%20shit.0.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/320/burning%20shit.0.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>As the contents of the 55-gallon drum burned down, I had to stir it every so often so that all of the contents burned. That’s what the guy in the picture is doing. Being the new guy in town, I got the honors of stiring the shit this time.<br /><br />Please take note of the black pipe stuck in the ground to the left of the fellow in the picture. That pipe is what was called a “Piss Tube”. I guess I don’t have to explain what that was for?<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Sleeping Arrangements</span><br />Most of us slept in the bunkers. Typically the floor was covered in wood or a mat of some kind. It’s not very comfortable, but you were sheltered and protected in case we took fire. Each of us was also issued something called a Shelter Half. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/1600/tent%201.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/320/tent%201.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>When you put two of them together, you got a small tent just big enough for two people. A lot of guys got together and set these up. One of the guys in my bunker and I decided one day to do just that. We set it up behind our squad’s bunkers in case we had to take cover quickly. We found some wood for the floor and slept on that. This was a lot better than sleeping on the dirt floor in the bunker. It looked something like this.<br /><br />One night when we were sleeping, someone calls out “IN COMING!” I knew what that meant, our nightly mortar attack. I grabbed my M-16, jumped up and out of the tent and dashed over into the first bunker I saw, which by the way wasn’t mine. I landed right in a friggin pool of water. Some assholes decided they wanted to have more headroom in the bunker, so they dug out the floor. Since it was still the rainy season, the floor filled up with muddy water. I sat in the water cursing under my breath waiting for the mortars to stop. They stopped in a minute of so and had landed harmlessly out in the rice paddies. I climbed out of the bunker bitching and moaning, all pissed that I was now soaked with muddy water. I was pissed, but everyone else though it was funny as hell and laughed their ass off.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Claymores</span><br />Out in front of each bunker we set up several claymore mines. They were nasty little things that could inflict a lot of damage over a pretty wide area.<br /><br />The M18 Claymore antipersonnel weapon is a weapon often used by many countries around the world, named after the large Scottish sword. The Claymore is designed to fire steel balls (shrapnel) out to about 100 meters across a 60° arc in front of the device, which stands just off the ground. It is designed primarily to be used in ambushes and as an anti-infiltration device against enemy infantry, however it is also of some use against soft-skinned vehicles.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/1600/claymore.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/200/claymore.jpg" alt="" border="0" /> </a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/1600/claymore%20inside.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/200/claymore%20inside.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br />Yes, it really did say “Front Toward Enemy”<br /><br />One day I was assigned to set up claymores out in front of some bunkers. I remembered how to do it from training so it wasn’t difficult to do.<br /><br />* Place the mine on the ground<br />* Aim the mine using the sighting slit<br />* Firmly press the support legs into the ground, rechecking the aim.<br />* Lay wire from firing position to the mine.<br />* Insert blasting cap into either detonator well and secure with the shipping plug.<br />* With the "Safety" in the "Off" position, insert plug of wire directly into M57 Firing Device. (Boy, did I soon learn that this was an important step)<br /><br />When you want to fire it:<br /><br />* Depress the handle (squeeze the device) sharply. This will send an electrical current to the blasting cap, causing it to detonate. The detonation of the cap, in turn, will cause the main charge of C-4 to detonate, sending the steel fragments into the opposing personnel.<br /><br />When I finished setting up the claymores, I got the sergeant so he could check how I did. He walked out in front of the bunkers so he could see them and he said everything looked fine. On his way beck to where I was, his foot caught the wire to one of the claymores pulling the firing devise off the bunker. When the firing devise hit the ground, the claymore exploded. It looked something like this.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/1600/claymore%20explode.1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/400/claymore%20explode.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>We all jumped sky high but the sergeant froze in his tracks. He turned and looked at me with a look that could kill and walked over to the firing device. He picked it up and showed it to me. I had forgotten to make sure the safety was on.<br /><br />That little explosion caused quite a ruckus at Pershing that day. The lieutenant and sergeant were called up to speak with the company commander. When they got back I was called over to speak to them and caught a little bit of hell for my incompetence, but I didn't really get in trouble. Just a little yelling and a lecture about keeping my mind on what I was doing, always be aware of what I’m doing and above all, check to make sure the safety on the firing device is ON the next time.<br /><br />By the way, someone else checked the rest of the firing devices to make sure the safeties were set. I guess the sergeant thought that was probably best for everyone.BTExpresshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15804441027821927177noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24856634.post-1143496307363673682006-03-21T16:50:00.002-05:002008-02-25T13:29:23.485-05:00Chapter 6: Hot LZ<span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">Landing Zone</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">A Landing Zone or "LZ" is a military term for any area where aircraft land.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">In the American military a landing zone is the actual point where aircraft land, (equivalent to the commonwealth landing point.)</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">In commonwealth militaries a landing zone is the cartographic, (numeric,) zone in which the landing is going to take place, (i.e. the valley.) Landing area is the area in which the landing is going to take place (i.e. the field where the aircraft are to land.) Landing point is the actual point on which aircraft are going to land (i.e. a point of the field.) Each aircraft has a different landing point.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">Landing areas are most commonly marked by coloured smoke. The standard procedure is for those at the landing area to pop smoke and say so over the radio. The pilot says when smoke is seen and what colour the smoke is. Those on the ground then respond with what colour the smoke should be. Smoke of a different colour can mean the landing area has been compromised, and the pilot usually has the authority to cancel a landing.</span><br /><br />A hot landing zone, or Hot LZ, is the place you never want to hear you are going. Hot means the landing zone is occupied by the Vietcong or NVA who will be shooting at you while you are landing or when you land.<br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">This is a shot of a Hot LZ</span><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">http://www.25thida.com</span><br /></div> <div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/1600/hot%20lz.1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/400/hot%20lz.0.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">SCATTER, AND QUICKLY! Tropic Lightning soldiers of the 1st Brigade charge out of their choppers into the hot landing zone, even as the Hueys are on their way out.</span><br /></div><br />Late one afternoon, our company was on our way back to FSB Pershing after an uneventful day on patrol. Right outside the wire around Pershing, we were told to hold up. The officers and NCOs were called together and briefed about something. When they were finished talking, we were briefed. It seems that some North Vietnamese Army soldiers (NVA) (I forget how many) were spotted and we were being sent back out to go after them. One platoon would be sent in first and radio back with what we would be encountering. If they made contact the rest of us would be sent in.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/1600/Elephant%20grass.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/400/Elephant%20grass.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>They also told us that we would be landing in and area covered with elephant grass. I knew what that was and didn’t look forward to having to fight in that. (Here is what elephant grass looks like.) They told us to take a break and we would be resupplied before back heading out. We settled down and supplies were brought out to us from Pershing. Things like water, food, hand grenades, smoke grenades, claymores, a lot of extra ammo, even cigarettes. We received enough supplies for a day or two. I wondered why they were giving us so much, but the guys explained that this was normal for something like this just in case we had to stay.<br /><br />A lot of things ran through my mind while we waited to go, which I’ve long since forgotten, but one thing you can be sure of was that I was scared and that everyone was scared. They told me that being scared was normal even for the guys that had been through this before, but once things got started, I just needed to remember what I was trained to do and I would be okay. I also remember thinking that this was it. That this was going to be the first time I would come face to face with the enemy in battle. I knew it was impossible to spend an entire year in Vietnam without this happening. It wasn’t exactly what I wanted to do, but that’s what I was here for. I pretty much accepted the fact I would be going into battle and busied myself with packing up the supplies.<br /><br />It wasn’t long before the choppers came in and picked up the first platoon to go hit the LZ, luckily we were not in the first group. After they took off, we gathered around the radio operator (RTO) to listen to what was going on. First they called in air strikes on the area to hopefully soften things up. When the air strikes were called off, the choppers were sent in with the troops. When they landed we heard exactly what we wanted to hear, “No resistance!” I remember feeling such a relief.<br /><br />They patrolled the area for about a ½ hour or so but found nothing. It looked like once the enemy knew they were spotted, they took off or hide. One thing about the NVA and Vietcong, other than snipers, was they never fought unless you took them by surprise and they had no choice except to fight, or they were sure they had you out numbered and out gunned. I guess this time it was the latter, which was just fine with me.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Landing in a Hot LZ</span><br />There was one time we actually landed in a Hot LZ. We were picked up one morning by choppers and flown to another area for our patrol. I should remind you I liked to sit on the floor right behind the pilot. Being in that spot always meant I was one of the first ones off the chopper when it touched down and one of the last ones on when it took off. What can I tell you, I liked the view sitting there with my feet hanging out the door?<br /><br />On our way in to the LZ, one of the choppers reported that they were taking on small arms fire and that the LZ would be hot. We were also told that since it was hot, the choppers wouldn’t be touching down, but hovering a couple of feet off the ground so they could take off quick. We would have to jump the rest of the way.<br /><br />The choppers circled the LZ and the door gunners (M-60 machine gunners on each side of the chopper) fired into the LZ all the way down.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/1600/chopper%20m-60.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/400/chopper%20m-60.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:78%;">http://www.25thida.com</span><br /></div><br />Once we got close to the ground, we hopped off the chopper and ran over to the berm surrounding the rice paddies, we got down and took cover. We fired a few rounds for effect, but none was returned, which made me very happy.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/1600/Rice%20paddy%20waiting.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/400/Rice%20paddy%20waiting.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br />One of the guys next to me asked me if I was okay.<br /><br />“Yeah, why?”<br /><br />“A round hit right between your legs just as you hit the ground.”<br /><br />I was pumped with adrenaline so I had to actually stop for a second to see if I could feel if I’d been shot; nothing.<br /><br />“No, I’m fine.”<br /><br />“That was close, your lucky.”<br /><br />“Yeah.”<br /><br />I don’t remember anything specific about the rest of the day, but as far as I’m concerned, that was enough for one day.BTExpresshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15804441027821927177noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24856634.post-1143496423729232612006-03-20T16:52:00.002-05:002008-02-25T13:34:02.665-05:00Chapter 7: We're Moved to FSB StuartAfter about a week or so at FSB Pershing, our company was reassigned to FSB Stuart to guard the bridge over a small river on Highway 1, one of the main highways in that area. FSB Stuart was just outside of the village of Trang Bang about 9 miles from Cu Chi.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">STUART, FSB (or) FSB Stuart III [Hieu Thien map] - XT 499197</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">Stuart III: The fire support base at the Highway 1 bridge near Trang Bang. Stuart III is the FSB most commonly refered to as "Stuart." Also misspelled "FSB Stewart." 2/12th base late 1968 to early 1970.</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/1600/SIAGON-CU%20CHI-TRANG%20BANG%20MAP.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/400/SIAGON-CU%20CHI-TRANG%20BANG%20MAP.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">TRANG BANG - vic XT4919</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">Trang Bang – pronounced just as it's spelled – was a market center for the surrounding coutryside. The 2/12th area of operations from late 1968 to February 1970.</span><br /><br />No chopper ride this time, we had to hike about six miles to FSB Stuart. It was a particularly hot and humid day and some where along the way I passed out from heat exhaustion. I couldn’t be revived so they called in a medivac chopper to take me to the 12th Evacuation Hospital at Cu Chi to recover.<br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/1600/12th%20evac%20cu%20chi.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/400/12th%20evac%20cu%20chi.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Being Carried on a Stretcher into the Hospital</span><br /></span></div><br />I spent the night in the hospital receiving fluids by IV and the next morning was discharged from the hospital and sent over to HQ so I could get back to my unit. They put me on a supply truck with a couple of other guys and supplies for my unit. We were told that we were to keep an eye out for anything suspicious. The ride was uneventful but somewhat scary for me as I’d only been in country for about two weeks at this point and had never done anything like this before.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/1600/truck%20duty.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/400/truck%20duty.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Riding in the Back of the Truck Looked Pretty Much Like This</span></span><br /></div><br />When I got to FSB Stuart, I went over to the command bunker and reported in and then was sent over to the bunkers where my platoon was assigned. Here are a few shots of Stuart.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/1600/FSB%20Stuart.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/400/FSB%20Stuart.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Fire Support Base Stuart Aerial View</span></span><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/1600/Hwy%201.0.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/400/Hwy%201.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Bridge Bunker Looking from the FSB Side of the Road</span></span><br /></div>When the squad that normally manned this bunker went out on patrol during the day, this was the place everyone wanted to be assigned. They had this place fixed up with all kinds of great stuff.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/1600/Stuart%20form%20bridge.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/400/Stuart%20form%20bridge.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">This is a View of FSB Stuart Looking From The Other Side of the Bridge. The Bridge Bunker is on the Left</span><br /></span></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/1600/FSB%20Stuart%20Gun.0.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/400/FSB%20Stuart%20Gun.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">8 Inch </span></span><span style=""><b>Howitzers</b></span><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"> Artillery on Tank Like Tracks</span></div><br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/1600/FSB%20Stuart%20Gun-1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/400/FSB%20Stuart%20Gun-1.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>Look at the soldier standing next to the gun. Now you can get an idea of actually how big these monsters are. There were two of these big guns in the center of the FSB and when they were fired, the noise was earth shaking, literally. So before they fired them, they called out a warning.<br /><br />I left the command bunker, found my squad and caught some harmless kidding about not being able to make the hike, but that was to be expected. I ask them where I slept. They laughed and point over to what looks like a long rounded pile of sandbags. It was about four feet high, four feet wide and about eight feet long. There was a little opening at one end to crawl in to. I walk over, get down on my knees and look inside. It was great, well great compared to a bunker. There were some pieces of wood laid down for a floor, a stretcher to sleep on and a box for a small table at the head end. This was a lot better than sleeping on a mat on the floor of the bunker. I crawled back out and thanked them for the accommodations. It was so funny to see their faces when they all took a look inside. It seems that none of them actually looked inside and just assumed it was a shitty place to sleep. I had offers to pay me to switch but didn’t accept the offers.<br /><br />The FSB was laid out in a large circle surrounded by bunkers, razor wire and mines. In the center were the command bunker, the mess tent, a latrine, showers and those 12-inch guns. During the day, there were also a few a few tanks. They stayed out in the surrounding rice paddies at night around the bridge to help guard it, but during the day they came inside the FSB for supplies, showers, meals etc.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/1600/HWY%201%20RUSH%20HOUR.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/400/HWY%201%20RUSH%20HOUR.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Rush Hour Traffic on Highway 1</span></span><br /></div><br />The road you see in the pictures was Highway 1. This view is very close to the exact view I had from my bunker. Highway 1 was the main road into Trang Bang and was loaded with traffic back and forth on the highway all day. There were always people trying to sell us things along the side of the road out in front of the FSB. You could buy pretty much whatever “luxuries” you needed that weren’t supplied to you. Liquor, marijuana filled cigarettes at $20 a carton (you supply the carton of regular cigarettes and they fill them with pot), pot at 50 cents an ounce, radios, ice and you could even get laid if you wanted. That would cost you 50 cents. The hooker would toss a mat down in the weeds. I never bought the services of a hooker, but I did buy a radio for $20. I still have the radio in the basement, but haven’t tried it for years so I don’t even know if it still works.<br /><br />FSB Stuart was where I was assigned the rest of my time in Vietnam, which would only be about two more weeks at this point.</div></div>BTExpresshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15804441027821927177noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24856634.post-1144786002093991022006-03-19T16:06:00.000-05:002006-04-11T16:24:07.400-04:00Chapter 8: Scouts, Dogs and Booby Traps<span style="font-weight: bold;">Kit Carson Scout</span><br /><br />Many times when we went out on patrols from FSB STUART, a Kit Carson scout lead our patrols. Kit Carson scouts are former Viet Cong or North Vietnamese soldiers that were our guides and interpreters. He always walked point with one or two of the regular point men and because of his first hand knowledge of enemy tactics, was able to locate mines, booby traps, ambushes and snipers long before we ever could.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/1600/kit%20carson.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/400/kit%20carson.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Dogs and Dog Handlers<br /><br /></span>Other times a dog handler and his German Shepherd would accompany us on patrols. The dog was great because he could smell trouble, literally. He could pick up the scent of the enemy and lead us right to them. We captured numerous VC because of both the Kit Carson scout and the dog.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/1600/dog%20handler.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/400/dog%20handler.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Punji Pits<br /><br /></span>One day we were patrolling through a heavily wooded area around a village and the Kit Carson found a suspected VC hiding. He gave up without any difficulty. We made him walk point with the Kit Carson and our point man. We figured if he lead us into an ambush, he would be the first to go. As we walked along, the VC started pointing out a lot of freshly dug punji pits right on the trail we were following. Maybe he knew where they were because he dug them.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/1600/PUNJI%20PIT.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/400/PUNJI%20PIT.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a> Punji pits like the ones he uncovered are extremely nasty booby traps. The simplest pit type was a hole about 20 to 30cm deep. The floor of this trap was then set with punji stakes, which could easily pierce the canvas and leather jungle boot. For added misery the spikes could be smeared with poison or human excrement to induce blood poisoning or worse. There were many variations, which allowed the spikes to attack the sides of the leg. This was particularly favored after the introduction of the reinforced-soled jungle boot.<br /><br />On another patrol one day, I stepped into a small punji pit. I felt like I was going to have a heart attack because I knew exactly what had happened. Fortunitly the bamboo stakes were old and rotten so they just crumbled when my foot and leg hit them. I didn't even get a splinter.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Trip Wires<br /><br /></span>Another booby trap I encountered was a trip wire. Trip wires were connected to all types of booby traps like the hand grenade in the picture below.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/1600/trip%20wire.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/400/trip%20wire.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br />One day we were dropped off in the Ho Bo Woods for a “Reconnaissance In Force” (RIF) patrol with one other company. Enemy activity had been spotted so we were sent there to see if we could find them.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/1600/ho%20bo%20woods.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/400/ho%20bo%20woods.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br />As you can see in the picture, the Ho Bo Woods weren't exactly what you would call woods any more. This area used to be a stronghold for the VC and NVA so the woods were leveled to eliminate hiding places.<br /><br />While patrolling the area, my foot got caught on something. I looked down and saw it tangled in a wire. I froze and called out that I was tangled in a trip wire. Now you figured the guys would back up since there was a possibility of an explosion, but no, a couple of guys immediately came over to check it out. They followed the wire and discovered that in wasn’t connected to anything, that it was probably an old trip wire, or maybe just a piece of wire lying around. I spent a lot of time looking down after that.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Not a Booby Trap</span><br /><br />Another day we were patrolling around one of the villages close to our FSB. We were walking on the berm that separated the rice paddies like the guys in the picture.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/1600/Rice%20paddy.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/400/Rice%20paddy.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br />All of a sudden I fall straight down into a hole filled with water that was over my head. Since I was carrying all that equipment, I sunk like a rock. I reached up to try grab something to pull my self out and someone grabbed my hands and pulled me up. My head went right back into my helmet which was floating on the surface of the water. With some help, I climbed out of the hole. It seem that I had fallen into a small well that had overgrown with the grasses that grew on the berms. Since it was over grown, I didn’t see it. This incedent got quite a laugh from everyone.BTExpresshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15804441027821927177noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24856634.post-1144786050052597472006-03-18T16:07:00.000-05:002006-04-21T11:38:19.650-04:00Chapter 9: AmbushedEarly in the morning on October 31, 1968, our platoon was on patrol searching a heavily wooded area. I was assigned to walk left flank for the first time. That means another guy and I walked out maybe ten meters to the left side of the main column. Just far enough so no one sneaks up too close the main column, but near enough so we don’t get separated from the group in case of trouble. The right flank does the same thing on the other side. There are also point men that walk a little ahead of the main column for the same reason.<br /><br />We were walking through the area and came across a few huts that were unoccupied and didn’t find anything. You couldn’t see very far around us so we stayed pretty close to the main column. Suddenly there was an explosion up front. We got down then moved quickly over toward the main group. I heard some of our men return fire and then someone called for a cease-fire and they stopped. The whole thing took 30 seconds, maybe even less.<br /><br />Next I heard the call, “MEDIC! MEDIC!” I knew someone had been hit. The medic gets up and runs crouched over up forward. Then they call for the M-60 machinegun up front. The machine gunner yells, “Let’s go!” He starts moving toward the front where the fire came from and I follow him along with the second ammo bearer. Not too far up ahead we run past the medic (Doc as medics were called) tending to someone. It was Sergeant Cox, our platoon sergeant. He had volunteered to walk point that day. He volunteered to walk point quite often. He said he liked walking point, but I think he really did it when he wasn’t comfortable letting someone else do it because he felt there might be trouble. That’s the kind of man he was.<br /><br />We got into position, the gunner in the center and ammo bearers on either side. I toss off my backpack with the ammo and put it in front of me in case it’s needed. The gunner always kept some ammo with him just in case so mine wasn’t needed right now. I search the area looking for movement and see someone moving over to my right. I turn quickly but see it’s one of our men getting into position. More men are now also moving into positions around us. I’m really expecting all hell to break loose at this point but nothing happens. Things are pretty quite and still no shooting. I just hear the sounds of our own guys moving around and talking excitedly very quietly among themselves.<br /><br />I soon hear the radio operator (RTO) call for a dust off (medivac chopper). We held our positions and waited for the chopper to pick up Sargent Cox. When the chopper got close, they tossed out a smoke grenade to identify our position and then carried the sergeant out to an open area and when the chopper landed, they put the sergeant on. They were taking him to the 12th Evac Hospital at Cu Chi. The same place they had taken me a day or two ago. This is what it had in the operational report about this incident.<br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">At 0844H vic XT513197, Co B detonated a claymore mine positioned in a tree. Results, 1 US WIA (dustoff).</span><br /><br />This was what it was usually like was while I was there, snipers would lie in wait for us and when we got close, they opened fire with small arms or explosives. This time it was a claymore mine positioned in a tree. Then the snipers usually disappear into thin air.<br /><br />We continued our patrol that day without any more trouble, but we did manage to capture one Viet Cong soldier that afternoon, I don’t remember how though. When we got back to the base camp, we turned over the VC to the MPs and they flew him into Cu Chi for questioning.<br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">At 1400H vic XT519201, Co B apprehended 1 male detainee who was evac to IPW.</span><br /><br />The next day we found out Sergeant Cox sustained severe head wounds and died.<br /><br /><br />I did a search of the Internet for information about Sergeant Cox and here is what I found.<br /><br />On the Vietnam Memorial web site each person listed on the wall has an information page. Here is what little bit of information is listed for James.<br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">JAMES ALAN COX</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">SSGT - E5 - Army - Selective Service</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">25th Infantry Division</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">21 year old Single, Caucasian, Male</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">Born on Apr 21, 1947</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">From HOLLIS, NEW YORK</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">Length of service 1 year.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">His tour of duty began on Jul 01, 1968</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">Casualty was on Oct 31, 1968</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">in HUA NGHIA, SOUTH VIETNAM</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">HOSTILE, GROUND CASUALTY</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">OTHER EXPLOSIVE DEVICE</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">Body was recovered</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">Religion</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">LUTHERAN & MISSOURI SYNOD</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">Panel 40W - - Line 63</span><br /><br /><br />I also found a web site that has rubbings of the names on the Vietnam Memorial Wall. Here is a rubbing of James’ name.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/1600/cox%20name.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/400/cox%20name.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/1600/vietnam%20wall.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/400/vietnam%20wall.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br />I clicked on a link on the Vietnam Memorial web page that took me to a page where I could leave a comment or pictures. I found this note from the daughter of one of James’ best friends’ back home in Queens.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 255);">Paula Miller</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 255);">pamille5@vt.edu</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 255);">Daughter of good friend</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 255);">65 Blossom Hill Road</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 255);">Lebanon, NJ 08833 USA</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 255);">Jimmy Cox was a good friend of my father's in New York. I know little about him, but I do have the honor of holding his army green jacket with his name on it. I say I know little about him but I feel the impact of his tragically short life on my father. My father is not an emotional man, and I have never seen him cry about anything save Jimmy. I can see through my father's eyes and the tears, how wonderful this young man must have been. To Jimmy and my dad, thank you, I love you. </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 255);">Peaches</span><br /></div><br /><br />I sent Paula an email on Saturday to the address she posted offering to tell her what little I knew about James. I’ve read so many entries similar to hers on so many different Vietnam related web sites from people crying for any little bits of information about someone that they knew that served in Vietnam. Maybe I can help her fill in some of the blanks. I hope she writes me back.BTExpresshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15804441027821927177noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24856634.post-1144786087445248092006-03-17T16:07:00.000-05:002006-04-28T11:51:24.783-04:00Chapter 10: TunnelsPart of the training we received that first week in Vietnam covered the tunnels around the Cu Chi area. At the time, they really didn’t know just how large massive the tunnel system was. Today these tunnels are a major tourist attraction and the Vietnamese have made known what it was like.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">War is hellish at the best of times. But imagine fighting a war underground in the suffocating, sweltering blackness of tunnels, barely tall enough for a man to crawl, let alone walk. Here, a wrong turn could send you plunging onto the lethal bamboo spikes of a punji stake trap. Elsewhere carefully placed trip wires were primed to detonate a grenade or release a box of scorpions onto their unsuspecting victim. In other places the entire walls of the tunnel seemed to move, covered with an impenetrable mass of spiders and stinging fire ants.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">This was the reality of warfare in the tunnels of Cu Chi, the Viet Cong's underground fortress dug beneath the jungles of South Vietnam. At its peak the Cu Chi tunnel network covered some 250 kilometres - from the Cambodian border in the west to the outskirts of what was then Saigon and includes everything necessary to support an army, from hospitals, kitchens and mess halls, to headquarters facilities. The tunnels gave Viet Cong forces the apparent ability to appear out of nowhere and disappear into nothing after an attack.</span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/1600/Cu%20Chi%20Tunnels.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/400/Cu%20Chi%20Tunnels.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>This map gives an idea of the extent of the tunnel system at Cu Chi--the orange lines represent major tunnels</span><br /></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/1600/Cu%20Chi%20Tunnels%202.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/400/Cu%20Chi%20Tunnels%202.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>This is a diagram of what a typical tunnel complex looked like.</span><br /></div><br /><br />Entrances to the tunnels were always carefully disguised but one day we found one that wasn’t disguised well enough.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/1600/Tunnel%20Entrance%20copy.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/400/Tunnel%20Entrance%20copy.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>We were searching a large village one-day when someone noticed some movement in a clump of trees. A few guys went over to investigate and saw a piece of wire sticking out of the top of what looked like a large anthill. A close look revealed a small trap door, which turned out to be the entrance to a tunnel. Our Kit Carson Scout came over and yelled something in Vietnamese into the opening. Someone inside the tunnel yells that he is coming out. He came out followed by a few more men. You see they had been wounded because they each were bandaged in some way. The scout questioned them and they told him that they had been wounded and were recovering down below. We called for our Tunnel Rat to climb down into the tunnel and search it.<br /><br />One member of our platoon was what was called a Tunnel Rat. Tunnel Rats were volunteers and most were small men who could squeeze through the tight trap doors and crawl along the narrow passages of the tunnels with relative ease. All they normally carried was a flashlight and a pistol.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/1600/Tunnel%20Entrance.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/400/Tunnel%20Entrance.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br />The Tunnel Rat climbed down into the hole and crawled around for a while. When he came back out, he told us that this entrance leads into a small room with a few beds. He saw other openings but didn’t go in them.<br /><br />We spread out and searched everything very closely while other troops rounded up all the villagers in one area. When I looked in one large bush, I found a sandbag full of small vials that looked like medicine vials containing medicine for shots. I brought the bag to our CO who was in one of the hooches interrogating one of the villagers. The interpreter read the label on the vials and said it contained dried penicillin. Ultimately we found out the village was sitting on top of a large underground hospital. Our company commander radioed in the situation and more troops were air lifted in to relieve us, search the tunnels and ultimately destroy them.<br /><br />I received a lot of praise for finding the bag. They weren't getting anywhere with the questioning, but when I showed up with the bag, the villagers started talking to hopefully save their ass.<br /><br />Today the tunnel complex is one of the main tourist attractions the the area. Here are some pictures that will give you an idea what they were like. The passages have been enlarged to accommodate tourists.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/1600/Cu%20Chi%20Tunnels%20c.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/320/Cu%20Chi%20Tunnels%20c.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a> <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/1600/Cu%20Chi%20Tunnels%20d.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/320/Cu%20Chi%20Tunnels%20d.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/1600/Cu%20Chi%20Tunnels%20g.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/320/Cu%20Chi%20Tunnels%20g.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/1600/Cu%20Chi%20Tunnels%20e.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/320/Cu%20Chi%20Tunnels%20e.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/1600/Cu%20Chi%20Tunnels%20f.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/320/Cu%20Chi%20Tunnels%20f.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a> <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/1600/Cu%20Chi%20Tunnels%20e1.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/320/Cu%20Chi%20Tunnels%20e1.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/1600/Cu%20Chi%20Tunnels%20h.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/400/Cu%20Chi%20Tunnels%20h.jpg" alt="" border="0" /> </a><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/1600/Cu%20Chi%20Tunnels%20i.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/400/Cu%20Chi%20Tunnels%20i.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">I know this last one doesn't have anything to do with the tunnel, so shoot me. ;-)</span><br /></div>BTExpresshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15804441027821927177noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24856634.post-1144786128282061832006-03-16T16:08:00.000-05:002006-04-21T11:37:44.756-04:00Chapter 11: VillagesThe area of Vietnam I was in was mostly farming villages that were not much more than huts with thatch roofs surrounded by jungle, banana trees, rice paddies or peanut patches. There may have been a small store or gas station if the village was by a road, but not much else at least in the areas I was. Trang Bang was the market place where everyone went for their food and things.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/1600/TRANG%20BANG.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/320/TRANG%20BANG.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>Trang Bang<br /></div><br /><br />Pictures of a typical village in our area<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/1600/Rice%20paddy.0.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/200/Rice%20paddy.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a> <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/1600/HOOCH%201.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/200/HOOCH%201.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a> <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/1600/VILLAGE%20STORE.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/200/VILLAGE%20STORE.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a> <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/1600/Rice%20paddy%20wet.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/200/Rice%20paddy%20wet.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a> <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/1600/Rice%20paddy%20and%20woods.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/200/Rice%20paddy%20and%20woods.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a> <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/1600/HOOCH%202.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/200/HOOCH%202.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br />The Viet Cong (VC) or NVA controlled many of the villages. If the men were not fighting for the South Vietnamese Army, they were “drafted” by the VC. When we searched the small villages, we saw very few men of fighting age, mostly kids, women and old men. The young or middle aged men we did see, were either in the ARVN military, elderly, disabled or had been wounded and could no longer fight. I was riding a convoy through Trang Bang the day we were security for the mine sweepers, it was the first time I’d seen very many men of fighting age other than the ARVNs.<br /><br />Most time we times we searched the villages as we came across them on patrol. Other times we were flown in near a village by chopper, in large groups to surround and search villages. Some of us were set up as a blocking force in case the VC tried to escape and others were sent in to do the searching. I did both jobs at one time or the other.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/1600/LANDING.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/320/LANDING.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br />One day two companies from our battalion and a couple of squads of ARVN soldiers were flown in to sweep through a village where a fairly large force of NVA had been spotted. Our company, Company B, and one squad of ARVNs was dropped off on one side of the village to act as the blocking force. We were dropped off some distance away so no one would know we were coming and walked up nearer the village and set up in something like a long line part way around the village. Another company, and the other squad of ARVNs was dropped off on the opposite side of the village, spread out and started sweeping toward the village.<br /><br />It didn’t look like anything was out of the ordinary was going on from our perspective, because we could see the villagers going about their normal activities. Then all of a sudden mortar rounds started dropping around us. It seems that the sweep might have driven the VC out of hiding and when they spotted us, fired in our direction. Our artillery forward observer called in a few rounds of artillery and the mortars stopped.<br /><br />Both companies closed in on the village and when we entered the it, we rounded up all the villagers in a group. Some of our men guarded the people while the rest of us continued to search all the hooches.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/1600/VILLAGE%20PATROL.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/320/VILLAGE%20PATROL.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold;"></span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/1600/Search%20Hooch.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/320/Search%20Hooch.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Searching the villages almost never turned up very much, except for what I’ve already told you about. This time was not much different. My guess is that the NVA we were looking for had ducked down into well-camouflaged tunnels and hide. Those damn tunnels were every where. Interrogation of the villagers did turn up six suspected VC though. The company commanders decided that as punishment for harboring the VC, the village would be burned down. We were ordered to set fire to everything, which we did. It was really weird hearing the villager crying and screaming at us for what we were doing, but we did it and didn’t give it much thought. We looked at all the Vietnamese locals as suspect VC so there wasn’t very much sympathy for the people that tried to kill us.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/1600/Hooch%20Burning.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/320/Hooch%20Burning.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br />We took the six suspect VC back to FSB Stuart where they would be picked up by chopper and taken back to Cu Chi for interrogation. While they were waiting for the choppers, the ARVNs started interrogating the prisoners. I guess they weren't talking, because at one point, the ARVNs covered their heads with sand bags, screamed at them, kicked them stuff like that. Then they laid them down in a puddle and once in a while poured water on their faces. This caused them to breath in the water and choke and cough a lot. We watched this go on until the choppers came for them. Word got back to us that most of the prisoners we captured didn’t make it back to Cu Chi. During the flight they were pushed out of the chopper one at a time by the ARVNs until someone talked. It worked.<br /><br />I didn’t really give all this much thought at the time, but some years later it bothered me that we we would resort to such things. I now know that these people really had no choice but to do what the VC and NVA told them to do. The “allies” would retreat back to there bases at night and leave the whole country to the VC and NVA. If the locals were’t under the direct protection of the ARVNs, then they had no other choice but to hide the enemy, feed them, what ever. Torture and burning villages like we did, is what had so many locals hating us. I asked a villager that spoke some English one day if they were glad we were here “rescuing” them from the Communists. The answer was absolutely not! Most people hated us for just being here. First it was the French then us. They were tired of war and just wanted it to be over. Most people knew nothing but war their whole life, it had been going on so long. The villager said they were just farmers and all they wanted to do was grow rice and peanuts and be left alone in peace and they felt that would happen no matter who was running the country. So as long as we were there, there would be war. They just wanted us to leave so it would be all over. It didn’t happen for about six or seven more years, but it did happen.BTExpresshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15804441027821927177noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24856634.post-1144786162653046942006-03-15T16:09:00.000-05:002006-04-21T11:37:29.706-04:00Chapter 12: Mine Sweep<span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0); font-style: italic;">2 NOV 68, Saturday</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0); font-style: italic;">Co B NL loc vic Trang Bang Bridge. 2-12 Inf (-) opened Hwy 7A for resupply convoy. 1 element of Co B escorted minesweep team fm XT496235 to vic XT487206, and rtn to NL.</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/1600/Mine%20Sweep.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/400/Mine%20Sweep.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br />Today we were assigned as security for a mine sweep team while they checked highway 7A for mines. A supply convoy was scheduled to use that route and as usual, a mine sweep team checked the road for mines before hand. This was almost a daily occurrence because many nights the VC would plant mines at random points along the route that the supply convoys took to resupply units.<br /><br />They picked us up with trucks very early and took us over to where they were starting. We were riding in the back of open trucks through Trang Bang that day. It was the first time I’d seen very many men of fighting age other than the ARVNs. We received so many dirty looks, even little kids were giving us the finger as we rode by. I saw young many in what looked like black pajamas pointed him out to someone and asked what that was all about. He told me he was probably VC. As the minesweepers progressed along the route, we were dropped off at different places to provided security for the convoys return trip. They did find some mines but nothing else happened. I only did this once.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/1600/TRANG%20BANG%20CONVOY.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/400/TRANG%20BANG%20CONVOY.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br />That same night I was jarred from sleep by mortar fire. It seems the radar on the bunker by the bridge, or it could have been on a tank, had picked up enemy movement so the mortars fired at their location.<br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">At 2060H Co B, vic XT501194, radar observed movement and eng with 81mm. Results unkn.</span><br /><br />This reminded me one of my first nights at FSB Stuart. I was assigned to man the bunker of a squad that had been sent out on night ambush. It was my turn to sleep so I was lying on top of the bunker catching some sleep. All of a sudden there was a loud explosion, which sounded like it was right on top of me, woke me up. I must have jumped a mile and in one motion, jumped down and got inside the bunker, I thought for sure we were being attacked. It turned out that it was just the large howitzers firing. I had seen them when I arrived, but this was the first time I heard them fire. I swear, the ground shook when they fired.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/1600/FSB%20Stuart%20Gun%203.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/400/FSB%20Stuart%20Gun%203.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>BTExpresshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15804441027821927177noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24856634.post-1144786275220641042006-03-14T16:10:00.000-05:002006-04-21T11:37:11.703-04:00Chapter 13: Scotch, Pot and Puff the Magic DragonOne of the days we were off, our squad decided to have a party. The Captain frowned upon any alcohol so we had to be secretive. During the day, we went out to the vendors selling things on the side of the road right outside our FSB. We picked up a bottle of Scotch, some ice and had the tobacco in a carton of cigarettes replaced with pot. We put the ice in a bucket and buried it up to the rim to try and keep it from melting as long as we could.<br /><br />After dinner, we broke out the soda (all we had left was grape) and mixed in some scotch. The guys lit up a joint and I tried smoking pot for the first time. I did what a lot of people probably did and took a hit like I would on a cigarette and blew it right out. I got my lessons and in a short time, I was an old pro.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/1600/SCOTCH.0.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/200/SCOTCH.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a> <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/1600/POT.0.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/200/POT.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /></div><br />We were having a grand old time when some guys came running out of the command bunker all excited and started running around to all the bunkers telling people something. We put everything away in a hurry so not to get caught. Someone came over to our bunker and told us a large number of NVA soldiers had been spotted heading in our direction.<br /><br />“Son-of-a-bitch, why did I have to drink the scotch and smoke the pot?” “Why didn’t we listen to the captain?” I swore right then that I’d never do anything like that again as long as I was in the field.<br /><br />We were told we were going to be supplied with extra claymore mines, rounds of ammunition and hand grenades, as an attack sometime during the night was imminent. We were on 100% alert that night, which meant no one was to go to sleep. If it looks like we were going to be over run, the artillery would be set level to the ground, and fire shells filled with nails at the NVA.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/1600/CLAYMORE.0.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/200/CLAYMORE.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a> <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/1600/HAND%20GRENADE.0.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/200/HAND%20GRENADE.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /></div><br />Well, news like that has a way of sobering you up very fast. We set up all the claymores out in front of the bunker (no, I didn't fuck up this time), unpacked and distributed the hand grenades and ammo and just waited.<br /><br />I don’t remember what time it was, maybe 10 or 11, when the artillery started firing. At about the same time, off in distance, you could see what looked like a firework show was just starting. You couldn’t hear anything, but could see the light from a lot of explosions and then saw the light from red tracer bullets being fried from up in the sky.<br /><br />Word spread fast that the NVA had been spotted and was under attack from the air. That’s what our artillery was firing at. The picture below gives you a very good idea what we saw off in the distance. The circle of red lights and the red funnel shapes in the sky are from the gattling guns firing in AC-47 airplanes.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/1600/PUFF%204.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/400/PUFF%204.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a> <span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0); font-style: italic;">This is an AC-47, otherwise known as "Puff The Magic Dragon" after the Peter, Paul, and Mary song of those days. This dragon, however, was not the benign one of song. Clearly visible on the left side of the aircraft are the barrels of three 7.62-mm gattling guns protruding from the open windows. Each was capable of 6,000 rounds per minute (that's correct - 100 rounds a second) for a full output of 18,000 rounds per minute, although the guns were normally only fired one at a time. The guns were aimed by rolling the aircraft into a left turn and visually lining up the target with index marks on the left wingtip and the pilot's side window. The door was left off so that illumination flares could be tossed out. Spent cases from the guns were collected into ammo cans placed beside each gun. It was not good to be the object of Puff's attention. This photo was taken at Phu Cat where the AC-47 squadron was based</span><br /><br />Next thing you know there were very large explosions. They told us they were bombs that were dropped from a B-52’s.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/1600/B-52.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/400/B-52.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br />We all just sat in awe watching the whole thing. At one point we even saw an explosion in the sky from one of our aircraft being shot down. Never did find out what it was. I don’t remember how long that went on, but it was quite awhile. We got updates pretty regularly on what was going on as the command bunker was in constant contact with whoever organized these sorts of things.<br /><br />We never did come under attack that night because of everything we saw the night before. The next morning after breakfast, we packed up all the extra supplies we were given the night before and gave them to the supply personnel when they came around to pick them up.BTExpresshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15804441027821927177noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24856634.post-1144786307581559232006-03-13T16:11:00.000-05:002006-04-21T11:36:57.006-04:00Chapter 14: Wounded<span style="font-weight: bold;">7 November 1968</span><br /><br />Tonight was my squad’s turn to go out on night ambush. We were heading to our usual spot in the local cemetery through a heavily wooded area when the last man in our column told us he thinks he heard something moving around behind us. He said he was dropping back for a second to see what it is. We kept moving and about a minute later he caught up to us and he told us he was sure someone was following us. The sergeant instructed us to take cover up ahead in a ditch. We all moved up and got down in it. I landed right on a piece of corrugated tin making a loud racket. Now if there were really VC following us and they didn’t know where we were, they sure knew where we were now.<br /><br />I moved over off of the piece of tin so I wouldn’t make anymore noise, which of course made even more noise. Then we sat sat silently watching and listening. We could hear movement in several places off to one side. It sounded like there were a group starting to move around us. It had to be either VC or NVA regulars because they were the only people besides our night ambush patrols that were out at night.<br /><br />The sergeant got on the radio and reported back about our situation. He told them he felt we were in danger of attack and we were coming back in. The CO told him no but the sergeant stood firm and we headed back moving in the opposite direction away from the noises we were hearing.<br /><br />We made it back to the FSB without incident and were all told to immediately report to the command bunker. The CO was in there and was totally pissed that we didn’t stay out like he ordered. The sergeant explained in more detail what had happened and made a good case for doing what we did. The CO understood better now and let the whole thing slide. Well, almost slide. He told us that since we didn’t stay out tonight, we would have to go out the next night again, sort of a punishment. We bitched a little under our breath, but resigned ourselves to the fact of two nights in a row on night ambush.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">8 November 1968</span><br /><br />The next day we discussed what had happened and we all agreed that we weren’t going to go back to the same area tonight again. We decided to sandbag it and go over to the ARVN (South Vietnamese military) compound and spend the night with them.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">Sandbagging. Definition: Bush term meant to describe the act of avoiding the assigned ambush, patrol, listening post, observation post, etc. and usually the act is meant to be unknown to the powers-that-be that ordered the particular activity.</span><br /><br />I found out this was done quite a bit. Sometimes the ARVNs would even take our squads into Trang Bang for a little R&R at night. That sounded good to me.<br /><br />When night came, we headed off first in the assigned direction and then in the direction of the ARVN compound. We were walking between a fence behind some buildings and a wooded area. It looked to me like we were cutting through a village.<br /><br />I had no idea were we were going or how long it would take us to get there, so I caught up to the man in front of me and asked him how far this place was. He told me “not far”, so as to put some distance back between him and I again, I stopped for a few seconds to drop back a little. As soon as I took my first step, to start moving again, there was a loud explosion.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/1600/claymore%20explode.2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/400/claymore%20explode.0.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br />I felt strange sensations all over my body; I’d been hit. It felt like my left ear had been shot off so I reached up toward it with my right head. As I neared my face with my hand, I felt blood squirt on it from what I would find out later, was a large wound in my neck. Then I felt a sharp pain in my back like I was being stabbed over and over. I began twisting and contorting my body while trying to remove my backpack, while rotating toward my left and collapsed on the ground. I was writhing in pain on the ground and finally succeeded in removing the pack the rest of the way.<br /><br />Then the next second I found myself looking down at me lying on the ground. It’s as if I was floating about ten feet up in the air looking down. Then instantly I was engulfed in a bright white light and was no longer where I was just a second before. I had no idea where I was and began looking around but didn’t see anything, just white. There was nothing at all. I didn't see anyone or hear anyone or talk to anyone. All I saw was white light, not a blinding kind of bright, just pure bright white.<br /><br />I knew at that point that I was dead. I remember saying to myself “So I’m dead, huh? So this is what’s it’s like to be dead?” still looking around to see where I was and still seeing nothing but white light.<br /><br />Then just as quickly as I found myself in the white light, I was back in my body lying on the ground. I hear someone call out, “Anyone hit! Anyone hit!” I tried to speak but nothing came out, I couldn’t talk.<br /><br />Then I heard someone call out again; “Anyone hit! Anyone hit!” I called out again and this time the words “I’m hit” came out. The sergeant came over to me and asks me if I’m all right, “I’m hit!” I repeated again. He told me I’d be okay, and yelled over at the RTO, “Get on the radio and tell them we have wounded and we need help right away.”<br /><br />I started feeling cold and pain in different parts of my body, but mostly in my back. I was trying to move around, get up or something but couldn’t do it. Someone told me to lie still and put a bandage on my neck and kept repeating to hold still and that help would be here in a minute.<br /><br />It wasn’t long before I heard our men arriving. I was quickly picked up by my arms and legs and put onto a poncho liner. The picked me up and started carrying me back to FSB Stuart. The pain in my back was so hard to take as they carried me. I asked them over and over to put me down so the pressure on my back would subside if only for a second. It hurt so much, but they didn’t listen, moving as fast as they could, almost running to get me back.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/1600/wounded.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/400/wounded.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br />They carried me back to our base camp at FSB Stuart and put me in the mess tent. The medic started tending to me. My clothes were being cut up to give him access to my wounds and he placed bandages in various places on my body. I had no idea at all what was wrong with me. I just knew I hurt so much and was so cold and wet, wet from all the blood I must have been loosing.<br /><br />The company commander, Captain Wissinger came over and kneeled down next to me and began trying to assure me I would be all right. I asked him how many men had been wounded, he told me seven and that the VC had set off a claymore. He told me they called in for a medevac as soon as they found out there was wounded and the chopper would be here soon for us.<br /><br />I asked him for something for the pain, but he seemed to ignore me and just kept telling me I would be okay. I asked again, but this time I screamed at him, “GIVE ME SOMETHING FOR THE PAIN GOD DAMMIT!” The medic was way ahead of him I guess after hearing me the first time and gave me a shot of morphine about then. That calmed me down just knowing the morphine would kick in soon and the pain would begin subsiding.<br /><br />Pretty soon I was carried out of the mess tent, this time on a stretcher. We went out the front through the opening in the rolls of razor wire that surrounded the FSB and across the highway to the landing zone where we waited for the medevac chopper to come pick us up. They called that a dustoff.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/1600/FSB%20Stuart.0.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/400/FSB%20Stuart.0.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br />As I laid on the ground waiting, a lot of thing ran through my mind, but the one I remember most clearly “Was I wounded bad enough to get out of this awful place? Would this be my ticket back to the world?”<br /><br />It wasn’t very long before I heard the chopper coming in to land. The sound was unmistakeable, kind of a WOP, WOP, WOP sound. When it landed they put everyone else on first and then put my stretcher across the width of the chopper on the floor.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/1600/medivac%201.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/400/medivac%201.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br />Up we went and I felt such a sense of relief, but damn, I felt so was so cold and wet with all the wind blowing around. They had covered me with a poncho liner but that just wasn’t enough to keep me warm. Then I remember feeling my pants sticking to my left hip so I reached down to pull them away with my left hand. My hand went about half way in to that large wound you’ve seen on my hip . “WTF happened to me!” I remember thinking in somewhat of a panic. This was the first time that it really hit me that I was in such bad shape and then I really got scared. I just folded my arms across my chest, tried to calm down and didn’t move for the rest of the flight to the hospital in Cu Chi.<br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0); font-style: italic;">8 NOV 68, Saturday</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0); font-style: italic;">Co's B and D (-) maintained NL at FSB STUART/Trang Bank Bridge vic XT501194. <span style="font-weight: bold;">At 1900H vic XT494198 Co B AP enroute to AP site was eng with 1 claymore by an unknown element, resulting in 7 US WIA (dustoff). </span>At 1015H vic XT516200 Co B eng 6 VC with SA, results unknown.</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/1600/medivac-1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/400/medivac-1.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>BTExpresshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15804441027821927177noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24856634.post-1144786339691845522006-03-12T16:12:00.000-05:002006-04-21T11:36:27.643-04:00Chapter 15: Surgery at the 12th Evac Hospital in Cu Chi<span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">The 12th Evacuation Hospital was established in Cu Chi along Highway 1 on December 1, 1966 in support of the 25th Infantry Division and remained on site until its deactivation on December 15,1970. The hospital was situated across the road from a petroleum dump and the artillery battery. The hospital, which could accommodate up to 300 casualties, was situated in a violent corner of Vietnam between Saigon and the Cambodian border and rarely lacked for action...</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/1600/CU%20CHI%20MAP%20-%2012%20EVAC.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/400/CU%20CHI%20MAP%20-%2012%20EVAC.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br />Here are a couple of pictures of an OR nurse that served at the 12th Evac Hospital in 1967, the pictures were just labeled Sarah.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/1600/nurse%202.0.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/200/nurse%202.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a> <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/1600/nurse%201.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/200/nurse%201.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">Sarah outside the operating room and one of the hospital buildings.<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/1600/12th%20evac%20cu%20chi.0.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/400/12th%20evac%20cu%20chi.0.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>Chopper landed outside the 12th Evac Hospital<br /></div><br />The instant the medivac chopper touched the ground outside the 12th Evac Hospital in Cu Chi, my stretcher was taken off.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/1600/medivac%202.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/400/medivac%202.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br />The first face I see is of the cutest little brunette nurse you’ve ever seen. “Hey, your cute.” I said. I didn’t get any response, I suppose, because the helicopter engine was making so much noise. (Yeah, I was a horn dog even then)<br /><br />They took me inside the building and several people started checking me out. First thing they did was cut off every stitch of clothes I had on, including my boots. Bandages were removed and some replaced right away. They started poking and prodding me and moving me around, even took a couple of x rays.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/1600/tending%20my%20wounds.0.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/400/tending%20my%20wounds.0.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br />Damn, that was uncomfortable. So I asked them for something for the pain. I wasn’t really in pain, just kind of very uncomfortable, but I was afraid, and didn’t want to be in pain.<br /><br />“Did they give you anything in the field?” the doctor asked.<br /><br />“No” knowing damn well they had. I just didn’t want to be in pain.<br /><br />The doctor says, “Nurse, give him some demoral.” I got the shot.<br /><br />I felt the doctor squeezing a piece of skin on the front of my throat, right under my chin. He asked me, “Can you breath okay?”<br /><br />“Yeah, I can breath fine” I said. “I’m just cold.”<br /><br />“Are you sure you not having any problem breathing?” he asks again, while still squeezing that little bit of skin under my chin.<br /><br />“I’m sure. Why?” I asked.<br /><br />“Oh, nothing. We’ll have you in surgery in a few minutes.” The doctor said calmly. “Get him covered with something, he’s cold.”<br /><br />I don’t remember how long I laid there, not long though. The demoral and morphine had really kicked by now and I really wasn’t feel much of anything. They came an got me and wheeled me down through some doors and eventually in a building rolling me past some operating rooms which were all filled. They were all separated from each other, but there was an opening in the front of each of them so I could see in as we passed.<br /><br />They rolled me into the area I was to be operated on, picked me up and placed me on the operating table. Got me settled in, strapped down, blood pressure cuff on, IV in; you know the drill if you’ve ever had surgery.<br /><br />“Were going to put you a sleep now" the surgeon says. I want you to start counting backwards from 100."<br /><br />“Wait an minute Doc,” I said “make sure you don’t start cutting on me until I’m asleep, okay?”<br /><br />“Don’t worry, we won’t, now start counting”.<br /><br />I start counting and my eyes started to close, but I quickly opened them again and repeated, “Make sure you don’t start cutting on until I’m a sleep.” Again the surgeon repeated not to worry and I fell a sleep.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/1600/operating%20room.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/400/operating%20room.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>BTExpresshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15804441027821927177noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24856634.post-1144786390045304452006-03-11T16:12:00.000-05:002006-04-21T11:35:37.150-04:00Chapter 16: Recovery at the 12th Evac Hospital at Cu ChiWhen I opened my eyes again to tell the doctor not too cut on me until I was a sleep, I was in a different room and there was a nurse standing next to me in fatigues, not that green operating room outfit they wear. I still said “Don’t cut on me untill I’m a sleep.”<br /><br />“The surgery’s over. Your in recovery now,” she tells me.<br /><br />“Am I okay?” I asked.<br /><br />“Surgery went well and your going to be fine,” she assurded me.<br /><br />“What happened to me?” I asked.<br /><br />“Here take a look.” And she reaches behind my head lifting it a little so I can see my body. I was completely wrapped in bandages except on my right arm. I looked like a frigging mummy.<br /><br />“Wow, I got fucked up!” I said without thinking.<br /><br />“She says with a little giggle, “Uh, yeah, I guess you did.”<br /><br />I was very thirsty when I woke up and asked the nurse for a drink. “Sorry, you can’t have anything yet, but I’ll get you a gause pad soaked in water” she said. She got it and came right back and put it in my mouth. I sucked it dry but it wasn’t enough so I asked for more. “One more and then that’s it, you need to wake up some more first.” she told me.<br /><br />I remember how pretty she looked, again a sweet looking brunette. I am partial to brunettes. After looking at all the Vietnam peasant women for the last month, any “Round Eye”, as we non-asians were known as, looked good to me. Damn she looked good, but this time I kept my mouth shut about it. I am a gentleman, at least sometimes, you know. I remember this time when I was in the hospital in Japan recovering, this really hot Hawaiian nurse with, I’m guessing C-cups, leaned over my bed to turn on the light and put her right boob right in my…….woops, I’m getting side tracked. I’ll tell you about that in a few more chapters. Now back to this chapter.<br /><br />It wasn’t long before they wheeled me into one of the wards in the hospital and put me into a bed. The wards were long rooms with a lot of beds from end to end and a nurses station, little else.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/1600/HOSPITAL%20WARD.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/400/HOSPITAL%20WARD.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br />I looked around the room and the place was filled with wounded soldiers. I saw a Vietnamese man in the bed across from me. I asked the medic getting me settled in, who he was. He told me “He’s a VC that has been wounded that night but don’t worry about him” as he pointed out an MP standing near by in case of trouble. The VC was out cold with tubes everywhere, so he wasn’t going to be a problem for anyone.<br /><br />The surgeon came in after a little while to check on me. I asked what had happened to me and would I being going home. “Yes”, he said, “you will be going home.” Then he told me I had about 30 to 40 different fragment wounds all over my body, a few quite large, but all superficial. Meaning I may have a lot of wounds, but none of them that serious or life threatening. He also told me they had to leave the wounds open for about ten days to try and prevent infection. During those ten days, they’ll clean them all a few times and monitor them to make sure infection doesn’t develop. If everything goes fine, then they’ll close them. He did tell me they had to close the one in my neck, that one couldn’t stay open. He said a large piece of glass went into my neck just missing my jugular vein. It sort of bounced off my Adams apple lodging right under my chin. (So that’s why he asked me if I could breathe okay.) That took with 35 stitches to close.<br /><br />Here’s a picture of the scar from that wound. It’s right above my collar. There is a nick on the front of my Adam’s apple from when the glass hit me. That’s how close it came to severing a jugular vein in my neck and killing me. The scar has faded quite a bit over the years so it may be a little difficult to make out.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/1600/neck%20scar.0.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/400/neck%20scar.0.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Everyone left me alone and I went to sleep for a while. When I woke up I really started to be conscious of all of my wounds and was very uncomfortable. I asked for a shot for pain which, by then, was due. I started moving around a little to try and get more comfortable and then realized I couldn’t move my legs at all. I tried, but it was no use, they wouldn’t move I called for a nurse in somewhat of a panic. A couple of people rushed over to me and I told them I couldn’t move my legs. They pulled back the sheet and asked me to move them. I tried to move them, but they wouldn’t move, I was paralyzed from the waist down.<br /><br />“Get the doctor!” the nurse ordered someone. A doctor came very quickly and asked me to move my legs. “I can’t! I’m trying but I can’t!” We went back and forth about this a couple of times and then poked me a few places on my legs and feet to see if I had any feeling in my legs. “Yes, I can feel it” I told him.<br /><br />“Good. Now just try to move your big toes.” I tried and tried but no use.<br /><br />“Yes you can, now concentrate.” I saw first the right toe move a little, and then the left. Not very much, but they moved.<br /><br />“That’s great!” the doctor said with a big smile. “You be fine, but it’s going to take some time.”<br /><br />“You mean I’m not going be paralyzed?”<br /><br />“No. Like I said, you’ll be fine.”<br /><br />“What’s wrong with me then? Why can’t I move my legs?<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/1600/Back%20scars.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/320/Back%20scars.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>“You have two very large wounds on your back and one of them goes very near your spinal column. The spinal cord may have been bruised and there’s a lot of swelling. So once the swelling goes down and trauma to the spinal cord starts to heal, you’ll be able to move your legs more and more. Eventually you should make full recovery.”<br /><br />What a relief!<br /><br />The doctor sent for a physical therapist and the therapist and one person or another from the ward that became free, spent the next couple of hours and then the rest of the next day off and on, moving my feet and legs around. The therapist told me that it would encourage healing faster. He must have spent two straight hours doing that that first night. It hurt like hell, but by morning I could actually move my feet pretty good. Everyday after that I could move my legs more and more and then almost four weeks later, I was able to stand for the first time with the help of crutches. I went through physical therapy for the next 18 months, but eventually made a full recovery.<br /><br />I should point out that about a year later when I was stationed at Fort Meade in Maryland, I checked into Walter Reed Army Hospital in Washington DC and had the scar on my neck and the two on my back, cleaned up by two plastic surgeons. Also, I never actually saw the two scars on my back or the one on my hip all that clearly until I bought my digital camera in early August 2005.<br /><br />Click the picture to enlarge it a little.BTExpresshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15804441027821927177noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24856634.post-1144786426325887732006-03-10T16:13:00.000-05:002006-04-21T11:35:17.986-04:00Chapter 17: My Purple Heart & the TelegramThe morning after my surgery, the batallion First Sergeant came to see me and award me my Purple Heart. He told me they were also putting me in for a Bronze Star, but I told him I didn’t want it. I didn’t really think I did anything to deserve it and I would feel guilty taking something that so many others had earned. He disagreed but said he would do as I asked.<br /><br />I asked him about all the other guys that got wounded and he filled me in. A couple of men were only wounded slightly and would be back out with our unit in no time. The rest required more care so would be sent somewhere else to recover and possibly go home. The sergeant pinned my purple heart to my pillow as all I was wearing were bandages and there was no place else to put it. Here’s a picture of my Purple Heart.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/1600/PURPLE%20HEART.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/400/PURPLE%20HEART.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br />One of the other men in my squad came in to see that morning too. He was walking with the help of a cane. He had gotten a large piece of shrapnel in his thigh and would fully recover. He didn’t have that long left in his tour in Vietnam so they were sending him home in a couple of weeks after the wound healed.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~<br /></div><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Now I take you to the kitchen in my house in Smithtown, New York sometime that same day.</span><br /><br />My step mother was sitting at the kitchen table drinking a cup of coffee, smoking a cigarette and reading the Sunday morning Long Island Press like she did ever Sunday. Something caught her attention outside, so she looked out the window and saw a car stopping in front of the house she didn’t recognize. A man got out, walked up to the door and rang the bell. Not really giving it much thought, she answered the door and the man told her he had a telegram for her. Her heart sank, because she was afraid it had bad news about me. At first she refused to even take it she told me, because she didn’t want to know what it said, but then signed for the telegram and went back into the kitchen and sat back down at the table. She put the telegram on the table and just stared at it. Many things ran through her mind as she just sat there staring at it.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/1600/telegram.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/400/telegram.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br />Finally gathering the courage, she opened the telegram and read it.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/1600/telegram%201.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/400/telegram%201.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>(Click on it to enlarge)<br /></div><br />My step mother couldn’t believe what she had just read, so she just sat there and cried trying to comprehend what the telegram said. Sometime later my father got home and saw her sitting at the table crying. She told him I had been wounded and just handed him the telegram. I remember them telling me that even though it said I wasn’t seriously wounded, it didn’t read like that so they didn’t know what to think. My step mother called my mother in Michigan to break the news to her and my younger sister.<br /><br />They tried to get more information about my condition by calling their Congressman the next week, but he couldn’t help them. He told them they would just have to wait and hope I would call them soon. I did call eventually, but it was about a week before I was able to use a phone to call them.BTExpresshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15804441027821927177noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24856634.post-1144786460628482402006-03-09T16:14:00.000-05:002006-04-21T11:35:02.623-04:00Chapter 18: Medevac from Cu Chi to JapanI was stable enough to travel a few days after my surgery, so I was transferred first to the 93rd Evacuation Hospital in Long Binh and then to a hospital at the Tan Son Nhut airbase in Saigon. I stayed in each of them for a couple of days. Then finally to 249th Evacuation Hospital in Camp Drake outside of Tokyo, Japan. I stayed there until December 3, 1968.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">The 93rd Evacuation Hospital in Long Binh<br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/1600/93rd%20EVAC%20LONG%20BINH.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/320/93rd%20EVAC%20LONG%20BINH.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0); font-style: italic;">During the Vietnam War the 93rd Evacuation Hospital admitted 73,023 patients, treated 9,353 battle casualties, and had over 232,581 out-patient visits. </span><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;">Tan Son Nhut Airbase outside of Saigon<br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/1600/Tan%20Son%20Nhut.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/320/Tan%20Son%20Nhut.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;">249th Evac Hospital in Japan<br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/1600/249th%20hospital%20camp%20drake.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/320/249th%20hospital%20camp%20drake.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br />One of those stops, I don't remember which one specifically, I was transported to the airport in a bus set up like an ambulance.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/1600/Ambulance%20bus.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/320/Ambulance%20bus.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br />As they were loading me on the bus, the tube that ran from my catheter to the bag, got caught on something pulling it most of the way out, but not all the way. I screamed bloody murder which of course, caused everyone to stop dead in their tracks.<br /><br />The nurse came over frantically asking “WHAT’S WRONG! WHAT’S WRONG!”<br /><br />“The catheter! The (insert expletives here) catheter!” I could barely breathe it hurt so much, so that was said rather quietly and breathlessly.<br /><br />The nurse pulled back my covers and saw what had happened and quickly inserted the tube back into my bladder. When she did that the pain almost stopped. Then (insert expletives here) came forth from my mouth in a never ending tirade. I’m sure they all felt badly for what happened, but I was pissed and made that perfectly clear.<br /><br />During the first ten days or so I was wounded, my wounds were cleaned and flushed out with a saline solution a few times a day in an to attempt to prevent infection. The larger wounds were packed with a sterial packing to keep the wounds from starting to heal and close. The process to clean them was very uncomfortable if not done carefully. The wounds were fresh and nerve ending were exposed. If the medic or nurse clening them got too rough with the Q-tips when cleaning them out, it also hurt tremendously. Everyone was very careful and the few times it started hurting, they backed off and gave me a chance to rest. I was also drugged up pretty good so that helped a lot. Except this one time in the hospital in Tan Son Nhut the Evil Nurse Kratchet got a hold of me causing more (insert expletives here) to spew forth from my mouth.<br /><br />Evil Nurse Kratchet must have been having a bad day or something because she comes over and tear’s off with the bandages, rips the packing out of the wounds, of course it sticks like hell to my wounds and hurts removing it if you don’t flush the wound with the saline first and go slow. Then Q-tips rammed into my wounds. Guess what I did? (insert expletives here), lots of them.<br /><br />(Okay, maybe she didn’t do it exactly like that, but you get the point, it hurt a lot if they weren’t very careful.)<br /><br />“Hey, take it (insert expletives here) easy! That (insert expletives here) hurts!<br /><br />That out burst quickly got the medic assisting the nurse to stop her and the doctor to come over to see what was wrong. “Get this (insert expletives here) away from me, she’s (insert expletives here) killing me!” I yelled. The doctor sent her away and told the medic to finish up. The rest of my time there I never even saw her again.<br /><br />A day or two later, I was loaded onto a medevac plane with a lot of other people for the trip to Japan. We were packed in like sardines just like in this picture. There were also seats for people that were ambulatory on the opposite side of the plane.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/1600/medevac%20plane.0.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/400/medevac%20plane.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br />I don’t remember very much else about this week or so because I was drugged up pretty well. I do remember that during the flight to Japan, a nurse, another cute one and also a brunette as I recall, helped me eat a boxed lunch with fried chicken, something like a meal you’d get at Kentucy Fried Chicken. I couldn’t sit up, and could only use my right hand because my entire left arm and hand were bandaged so I needed her help.<br /><br />I will always remember how nice it was being fed by that pretty woman, no matter why she was feeding me. Laying there looking up at her and into those very pretty, caring eyes. Knowing I had made it out of that God forsaken country alive and was on my way home again. That plane may not have been the one I arrived on, but it was a plane taking me back to the 'World' none the less. I was going home and was very, very happy.BTExpresshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15804441027821927177noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24856634.post-1144786499722422012006-03-08T16:14:00.000-05:002006-04-21T12:41:26.023-04:00Chapter 19: I Arrive at the 249th General Hospital, Camp Drake, JapanThe long flight from Tan Son Nhut Airbase outside of Saigon ended at an airbase northwest of Tokyo in Japan. I was being transferred to the 249th General Hospital in Camp Drake, which wasn’t very far away. I would stay at the 249th for a few weeks before being transferred closer to home for the remainder of my hospital stay.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/1600/CAMP%20DRAKE%20MAP.0.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/400/CAMP%20DRAKE%20MAP.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br />When the medevac <span id="gtbmisp_22" style="border: 0pt none ; margin: 0pt; padding: 0pt; background: transparent none repeat scroll 0% 50%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: bold; line-height: normal; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; position: static; -moz-background-clip: -moz-initial; -moz-background-origin: -moz-initial; -moz-background-inline-policy: -moz-initial; text-align: left; text-indent: 0pt; text-transform: none; text-decoration: underline; cursor: pointer;font-family:serif;font-size:100%;color:red;" ></span> plane I was on touched down on the runway in Japan, a cheer erupted from everyone on the plane. I remember getting goose bumps at the sound of that and just how good it felt to be out of Vietnam and on friendly soil again. No longer would I have to fear for my life every second of every day any more. I felt so good that I almost forgot why I was here.<br /><br />I was taken off the plane and put on a medevac <span id="gtbmisp_23" style="border: 0pt none ; margin: 0pt; padding: 0pt; background: transparent none repeat scroll 0% 50%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: bold; line-height: normal; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; position: static; -moz-background-clip: -moz-initial; -moz-background-origin: -moz-initial; -moz-background-inline-policy: -moz-initial; text-align: left; text-indent: 0pt; text-transform: none; text-decoration: underline; cursor: pointer;font-family:serif;font-size:100%;color:red;" ></span>helicopter just like the ones in Vietnam for the flight to the hospital. The flight didn’t last long so the helicopter didn’t fly very high. I could look out the windows at the scenery as we flew over. I remember how crowded it looked; everything was so close together. What really surprised me was seeing a few farms but they were very small compared to ones I remember seeing growing up.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/1600/249th%20hospital%20camp%20drake.1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/400/249th%20hospital%20camp%20drake.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>249th General Hospital, Camp Drake, Japan<br /></div><br />Once the helicopter landed I was wheeled into the hospital on a gurney and placed in intensive care where I would stay until after my surgery a few days later. The wards in this hospital were just one big room with beds lined up not too far part in long rows. The fellow in the bed on one side of me had a large abdominal wound and the fellow on the other side had a chest wound. There wasn’t much to do so we talked about how we were wounded and what was wrong with us. We also paid close attention to each other when our wounds were treated.<br /><br />When I first got wounded, it was difficult to look at my wounds. The easiest way to describe the feeling would be the feeling you get just before you are going to get a shot or they draw blood from your arm. You know how you can’t look and turn your head just before the needle sticks you. As if not looking will make it hurt any less or something. That fear of looking passed very soon after I was a wounded and I watch intently whenever my wounds were treated and asked questions when I wanted to know what things were or what was going on.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/1600/The%20Scar%20Named%20Bug.1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/320/The%20Scar%20Named%20Bug.1.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>Remember the picture I posted of my bug scar on Half-Nekkid <span id="gtbmisp_24" style="border: 0pt none ; margin: 0pt; padding: 0pt; background: transparent none repeat scroll 0% 50%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: bold; line-height: normal; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; position: static; -moz-background-clip: -moz-initial; -moz-background-origin: -moz-initial; -moz-background-inline-policy: -moz-initial; text-align: left; text-indent: 0pt; text-transform: none; text-decoration: underline; cursor: pointer;font-family:serif;font-size:100%;color:red;" ></span>Thursday back in September? That scar was the result of a 4 inch round wound on the top of my right thigh. That wound was easy to see when they cleaned it. The wound was superficial which meant the flesh and fatty layer were gone, but the muscle was left intact. The first time had the nerve to look at that wound, I got a little worried because the muscle had a green tinge to it. They told me that was what it was suppose to look like and was normal. Pretty soon I was straining to look at all of my wounds whenever they cleaned them.<br /><br />The wounds I could see on my body were nothing compared to the abdominal wound on the guy next to me. One time when they were cleaning it, he rolled over in my direction so I could get a good look at it. HOLY SHIT! His abdomen was sliced open in the shape of a very large capital “T” with the top of the “T” just under diaphragm. I could actually see inside of him. I mean the organs weren’t exposed but still, that was wild!<br /><br />The guy on the other side was recovering from a chest wound that was almost healed. He was in ICU because his chest cavity kept filling with fluid that had to be drawn out several times a day. He would sit up, face me and lay his chest over one of those bed tables they give you to use when you sit up in bed in the hospital. They used a very large syringe and the longest needle I had ever seen to draw out the fluid. They stuck it directly into his upper back three or four times until most of the fluid was removed. The fluid was a yellowish color. He tried to hide how much it hurt, but you could see by the look on his face how much it must have been killing him.<br /><br />I had a lot of tests and x-rays those first couple of days. I had to slide out of the bed over onto a gurney. Get wheeled to x-ray, or where ever, and sometimes back off the gurney and onto another table the have to reverse the process when I got back in bed. I was drugged up pretty good so I wasn’t very uncomfortable just lying in bed, but during these transfers it got pretty bad. Having a catheter didn't make any of this any easier. If you remember I had wounds pretty much everywhere except on the front of my torso and right arm and still had great difficulty moving my legs. Since I my entire <span id="gtbmisp_25" style="border: 0pt none ; margin: 0pt; padding: 0pt; background: transparent none repeat scroll 0% 50%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: bold; line-height: normal; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; position: static; -moz-background-clip: -moz-initial; -moz-background-origin: -moz-initial; -moz-background-inline-policy: -moz-initial; text-align: left; text-indent: 0pt; text-transform: none; text-decoration: underline; cursor: pointer;font-family:serif;font-size:100%;color:red;" ></span>body was practically wrapped in bandages, I wasn't allowed <span id="gtbmisp_26" style="border: 0pt none ; margin: 0pt; padding: 0pt; background: transparent none repeat scroll 0% 50%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: bold; line-height: normal; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; position: static; -moz-background-clip: -moz-initial; -moz-background-origin: -moz-initial; -moz-background-inline-policy: -moz-initial; text-align: left; text-indent: 0pt; text-transform: none; text-decoration: underline; cursor: pointer;font-family:serif;font-size:100%;color:red;" ></span>to wear pajamas which made tending <span id="gtbmisp_27" style="border: 0pt none ; margin: 0pt; padding: 0pt; background: transparent none repeat scroll 0% 50%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: bold; line-height: normal; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; position: static; -moz-background-clip: -moz-initial; -moz-background-origin: -moz-initial; -moz-background-inline-policy: -moz-initial; text-align: left; text-indent: 0pt; text-transform: none; text-decoration: underline; cursor: pointer;font-family:serif;font-size:100%;color:red;" ></span>to my wounds easier.<br /><br />One time when I was being transferred back into bed, they were having trouble getting me off the gurney and back into bed. The sheet I was covered with had got caught on something about half way through the transfer so they stopped to clear it so I stayed covered. That pissed me off so I just yanked the sheet off and told them to forget it. I didn’t care who saw me nude at that point. My modesty was long gone. They got me back into bed and I settled in. Then a couple of the guys started making jokes about my lack of “manhood” if you get my drift.<br /><br />Sometimes when I was taken for tests I had to be wheeled between buildings, which meant going outside. I always asked them to prop up the head of the gurney so I could look around. I’ll never forget the first time being outside how overwhelmed I was with everything. I even made them stop for a few minutes just so I could take it all in. They turned the gurney so I could look around without straining.<br /><br />As soon as the doors open to go outside, I remember taking a deep breath and smelling the air, air so fresh and sweet. It was as if I was smelling clean air for the first time. It was a beautiful sunny day, a little chilly, but I was covered with a blanket so I didn’t care. I remember hearing the birds singing and seeing them flying around and hopping on the lawn. The lawn was dotted with benches and tables with people sitting, or just walking around enjoying being outside in the fresh air on such a beautiful day.<br /><br />Across the lawn, was a fence and over the top of the fence I could see the second floor on a school. The children were moving in and out of the classrooms and walking along under the over hang that ran the length of the second floor of the school outside the classrooms. I could hear them laughing and talking as they moved along just like I used to do when I was in school.<br /><br />How wonderful everything seemed just then. Gone were the smell of the diesel fuel exhaust and the sounds of the vehicles that constantly drove back and forth all day on the highway outside FSB Stuart. Gone were the smell of the exhaust and the sounds of the helicopters that flew us so many places, so many times. Places we never knew what to expect when we landed. Places we never knew if we would even make it back from. Gone was the smell and sounds of gunpowder from the rifles, mortars and hand grenades, and those damn 105mm Howitzers at FSB Stuart that shook the ground and sent shock waves through the air every time they fired. Gone were the smells and sounds of war. Gone were the never-ending fears that almost never let me get comfortable from the moment I first landed in Vietnam and stepped off that jet into the rocket attack at Bien Hoa airbase just a little over a month ago.<br /><br />At that moment in time, a feeling of peaceful contentment engulfed me that I will never forget. I truly never felt better in all my life.BTExpresshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15804441027821927177noreply@blogger.com19tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24856634.post-1144786537584735492006-03-07T16:15:00.000-05:002006-11-06T14:25:05.803-05:00Chapter 20: The Smithtown News ArticleThe is the story the local paper published about my being wounded.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/1600/newspaper%20article.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/400/newspaper%20article.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br />The Smithtown News<br />November 21, 1968<br /><br />Our Serviceman<br /><br />Private Anthony C****k, Jr., son of Mr. and Mrs. Anthony C****k of North Ingelore Court, Smithtown, is a patient at the 249th Hospital in Tokyo, recovering from wounds suffered in Vietnam.<br /><br />The soldier was wounded November 8 on a night patrol in the Vietnam Delta region when the enemy exploded a claymore mine, hitting the Smithtown man in me face, neck, back, left arm and legs. Anthony's brother, Edward, is in the U.S. Navy, undergoing basic training at the Great Lakes, Ill. Another brother, Rod, has been deactivated from the Reserves and is now home.BTExpresshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15804441027821927177noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24856634.post-1144786582190114222006-03-06T16:16:00.001-05:002008-02-25T13:24:57.212-05:00Chapter 21: My Second OperationI was in ICU at the 249th General Hospital in Camp Drake, Japan for a few days before the surgery to close my wounds. They couldn’t close them for at least 10 days after I was wounded because of the risk of infection. If you remember, I was wounded by a homemade claymore mine, so everything in it was dirty and could cause infection if my wounds weren’t tended to properly. The mine was described to me as something that looked like a large tuna fish on its side. It was packed first with some sort of explosive and then layered with anything they could find to cause damage when the pieces struck you like pieces of metal and glass. Then a layer of mud covered that and was packed very tightly and allowed to dry sealing the whole thing. A small hole was poked in one side just big enough for a blasting cap. The blasting cap was attached to a long wire and detonated using an old battery that we more than likely carelessly threw away. It was very likely that everything the mines were made from was from the garbage we threw away. That’s why we were never supposed to just toss our garbage away anywhere we felt like it. You never knew what the Vietcong could come up with to use it against you.<br /><br />The mines were typically manufactured in underground manufacturing plants in the Cu Chi tunnel system near where I was stationed. This map gives an idea of the extent of the tunnel system at Cu Chi--the orange lines represent major tunnels.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/1600/Cu%20Chi%20Tunnels.0.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/400/Cu%20Chi%20Tunnels.0.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">At its peak the Cu Chi tunnel network covered some 250 kilometres - from the Cambodian border in the west to the outskirts of what was then Saigon and includes everything necessary to support an army, from hospitals, kitchens and mess halls, to headquarters facilities.</span><br /><br />I remember the day I was prepped for surgery. It was pretty much like the prep for surgery back at Cu Chi. I was given a shot to relax me and moved into an operating room. This operating room was much more modern at the 249th and very much the ones in any large modern hospital you saw in the states at the time. In case you’re wondering, yes, I said the pretty much the same things I said to the doctor just before my first operation at Cu Chi. “Wait an minute! Make sure you don’t start cutting on me until I’m a sleep, okay?” “Don’t worry, we won’t, now start counting backwards from 100.”<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/1600/CAMP%20DRAKE%20WARD%20PICS%20B.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/320/CAMP%20DRAKE%20WARD%20PICS%20B.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>I woke up after the surgery in recovery and eventually moved to the ward that I would spend the rest of my stay in this hospital. This ward was a lot more open than ICU. The photo below, is an old picture of one of the wards at the 249th I found on the Internet. There was a walkway just outside the windows in the background. I was in the row just behind the beds these guys are standing in front of, opposite the beds against the windows. My bed was just a few beds away from a door to outside that is out of the picture to the right.<br /><br />Soon after I was settled in, in the ward, the surgeon came to see me and discuss what he did. The doctor told me the surgery went very well, but due to the extent and quantity of wounds I had, I was in surgery for, if I remember correctly, about four hours.<br /><br />I remember asking him “How many stitches did it take to close them all?” He smiled and told me “I really don’t know exactly, maybe 500 or 600.<br /><br />I was shocked at how many stitches it took and said, “That’s a lot of stitches, how many wounds do I have?”<br /><br />Another smile and he said “I don’t know that either exactly. There were several doctors working on you at once, but I’d say about 30 to 40. A few of the wounds were quite large, like the ones on your back and the one on your left hip, but none of them are serious and you’ll make a full recovery.” he replied. “On the deeper wounds, we had to stitch them closed on both the inside and out. Also, some we couldn’t use regular stitches so we closed them with wire.<br /><br />“Now what happens?” I asked.<br /><br />He told me, “Your going to need a lot of physical therapy to help you make a full recovery, but don't get discouraged, you will make a full recovery. Someone from physical therapy will be coming to see you tomorrow or the next day and do an evaluation to see what therapy is needed.”<br /><br />Now for my most important question, “When will I be going home?”<br /><br />The doctor told me, “That really depends on if there are any complications like infection.” he said, “But if everything goes as we predict, very soon after the stitches are removed, which will be in about two weeks. Then we’ll make the final decision, but I’m sure it will be well before Christmas.”<br /><br />The doctor was correct, I did make it home well before Christmas, but not without a few setbacks. I’ll tell you about them in another story.BTExpresshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15804441027821927177noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24856634.post-1145310901523743512006-03-05T17:54:00.000-05:002006-04-28T09:56:04.626-04:00Chapter 22: Post Op & My Stay at the 249th General Hospital in JapanI found this picture of patients at the 249th General Hospital on the Internet. I don’t know how old it is, but it is a very accurate picture of what the wards were like.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/1600/CAMP%20DRAKE%20WARD%20PICS%20B.0.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/400/CAMP%20DRAKE%20WARD%20PICS%20B.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>Daily life at this hospital was pretty monotonous. Every day the routine was pretty much the same. They’d wake you up early and give you breakfast. Then there would be rounds by the doctors. Each day a Red Cross volunteer came around with a cart of magazines, books and things like that, so I would get a magazine or two to read. There were no TV’s, but that didn’t matter, because all the stations were in Japanese anyway. I did manage to get a radio so that was pretty much the limit of my entertainment. I remember each night they played some of those old radio shows, like Mystery Theater. That was always a cool thing to hear. But most of the time we all just talked.<br /><br />By now, my wounds had healed well enough so the bandages just covered them and I wasn’t wrapped like a frigging mummy. My large wounds were closed with metal wire sutures instead of regular sutures. Picture a metal twist ties without the paper. The twisted end stuck straight out and was forever getting caught on the bandages and pulling. The one that bothered me the most was right between my right butt cheek and thigh. Every time I’d bend my right leg that damn wire would catch on the bandages and pull, which wasn’t a pleasant feeling at all. I was stitched up with wire in a lot of places, because regular sutures were too small a diameter and would cut through the skin and wouldn’t be able to hold the wounds closed.<br /><br />A few days after I was at the 249th, I pointed out the swelling in my left palm and how black and blue it was becoming. There was a wound in the back of my left hand about an inch or so in diameter, so at first, they thought that was the problem. It also still hurt quite a bit more than anything else did. They took and x-ray and found out I had a broken bone in my left hand. This is the bone that was broken.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/1600/Broken%20hand.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/400/Broken%20hand.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br />Since I still had an open wound on the back of the hand, they couldn’t put my hand in a regular cast, so they put it in a half cast. The cast ran from just below my left elbow out to the end of my fingertips. Then they wrapped my hand and arm in a bandage. This was not much different than I already had, except now they immobilized my fingers again and I couldn’t use the hand at all anymore. At least before this, I could use my fingers on my left hand for things, now I really was limited to just my right making me all the more helpless, again. I didn’t really mind very much, because I got lots of help with everything. Since almost everyone working on the wards were nurses, (hee, hee, hee) well, you know me well enough by now to know how much I liked help from cute nurses.<br /><br />I remember my most embarrassing moment at this hospital. I hadn’t had a bowel movement in quite a while so they gave me a suppository, sat up the head of the bed and put me on a bedpan. A little while later someone came around and told us a general, his wife and daughter was coming around visiting the wounded in all the wards. I was hoping they didn’t come too soon so I could finish and get off the bedpan. You guessed it; I was still on the bedpan when they came, but hadn’t started going yet. If only I could hold it in until they left, I thought.<br /><br />There was a big group of people with the general and his family. They separated in a few groups and went from bed to bed and visited everyone. Since I was sitting up and covered in bandages, I attracted the attention of about everyone, so guess who got a lot of visitors. I mean, it felt really good to have all these people come around, give me sympathy and thank me for what I had done, especially the general’s 20-something year old daughter. But damn, why did they have to choose that moment to visit.<br /><br />I could feel the suppository working, but made sure I held it in until they all had visited me, but I couldn’t hold it in until they had left the ward. I’m not sure if they figured out where the farts and smell was coming from, but things sure cleared out fast after I started going.<br /><br />I week or so into my stay here, I started getting these pains in the lower part of my back and I couldn’t hold anything down. That started in the middle of the night and by the time morning came around, I had vomited all there was to vomit and was in agony. I wasn’t on Demerol anymore and couldn’t keep down the tablet painkillers they were giving by mouth, so it was a long night.<br /><br />It was a Sunday morning and there weren’t very many doctors on duty, so it took what seemed like forever to get one to show up. He authorized Demerol by IV and that did the trick on the pain in a few minutes. He checked me out, took some blood and urine and in a short time, discovered I had developed a kidney infection. (WTF! Was there anything else that could go wrong with me?) The medication I needed had to be administered by IV. They couldn’t put the IV in my left arm because it was completely bandaged, again, so it had to go in my right. They also couldn’t use a needle because I had to use my right arm to function and by moving my arm the needle would puncture the vein it was in. So he inserted a small tube in the vein instead. The doctor had to cut a small hole in my arm and vein so he could insert the tube. (Great! More holes!)<br /><br />Not too bad though; a little shot of something to numb the area and a little gusher of blood when he cut into the vein. He inserted small tube, taped my arm like crazy to stop the bleeding and secure the IV. Then the nurse connected one of many bottles of liquid I would receive for the next week or so. I also received a shot in my butt a few times a day of a very thick med. It hurt like hell when it was injected, so they numbed the area before injecting the medication. First they drew the medication into the syringe and then drew in something to numb the area. It still hurt, so a technique one nurse used was to smack my ass cheek before giving me the injection. That stung so I never really felt the shot. I wonder if that’s were I got my attraction to spankings?<br /><br />I also received shots of Demerol every four hours for the pain and took advantage of every one. Since I was already poked full of holes, the nurses would give it to me directly in the IV. I soon learned how drug addicts felt main lining. They would stick the needle in the IV and ask me to tell them when I felt the effect of the drug. Yeah, right! Needless to say, they always stopped before I said I felt it.<br /><br />I don’t know if you remember, but here’s the story I promised you in one of my earlier stories.<br /><br />There was this very hot brunette Hawaiian nurse on our ward. Damn, was she hot and built, oh was she built. One night in the middle of the night, she came to give me a shot. All the lights were out in the ward, so she had to turn the light on that was attached to the head of my bed. She leaned way over and her boobs were coming directly for my face. Then just before her left boob, or it could have been her right one, pressed against my face, I turned by head away and it pressed against my left cheek. I swear, to this day a day doesn’t go by that I don’t kick myself for turning my head. Come on, do you blame me? Of course not, you’d probably kick me in the ass too. It was going to be the first time in my life I would have a boob in my face and I blew it and I blew it big time!<br /><br />The worst part about the kidney infection was that I wasn’t allowed to have anything by mouth. That meant no food, no water, nothing. After a day or two I felt a lot better and was starving. They still wouldn’t give me anything to eat so the guys around me gave me anything they didn’t eat from their meals. I would eat anything, well, at least try it. The ones thing I remember specifically eating, was cucumber salad. I had never had it before that and I remember liking it a lot. I still do.<br /><br />About 10 days or so after my surgery, my wounds had healed enough to remove the sutures. Removing the regular ones was a piece of cake, but removing the wire ones was a completely different story. You see, they cut the wire to remove it, which left the end bent over in a small hook ever so slightly. So when they pulled it out, that little hook cut into the skin as it was pulled through. Each and every one of those suckers stung like hell coming out.<br /><br />One-day I received a telephone call . “Who could be calling me here?” I wondered. It was a man that worked for the company my stepmother worked for. When she found out he was going to Tokyo, Japan on business, she asked him to call me. He wanted to take me out on the town but I wasn’t allowed out of the hospital. Too bad, I would have really would have liked to have gotten out of there, at least for a little while.<br /><br />I went to physical therapy everyday after the stitches came out to help me regain use of my legs. I was moving them around okay, but there was no way I could stand on them yet. During my first evaluation, they had me lay on my stomach and bend my legs up torward my back side. I had no problem doing that, but I couldn't keep my left leg bent like that. My left leg would fall to one side or the other. I also couldn't move my left leg directly out to the side.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/1600/Back%20scars.2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/200/Back%20scars.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>They explained that the muscles in my left hip had been damaged and removed during surgery so that's why those things happened. I was told that the therapy would retrain my other muscles to take over and I should have full use of my left leg again. You would never imagine it was possible by looking at this picture, but they were right, I do have full use of the leg today.<br /><br />Everything went well after that. I started walking around okay and by the end of first week of December, I had finally gotten over my kidney infection. You know what that meant? Now there was nothing else to keep me from being discharged.BTExpresshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15804441027821927177noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24856634.post-1145309773400173482006-03-04T21:51:00.000-05:002006-04-28T09:56:46.273-04:00Chapter 23: My Trip Back to the WorldOn 2 December 1968, the doctor in Japan cleared me for discharge the hospital and transfer back to a hospital in the United States, or as we called it, The World. They gave me choices of any hospital in the United States I wanted to be transferred to and I choose St Albans Naval Hospital in Queens, New York. This hospital was the closest military hospital to my home in Smithtown on Long Island, about 40 miles away. The doctor told me my orders would be cut that same day and I would be transfered the next.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/1600/orders%20-%20249th%20to%20st%20albans%20-%20edited.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/400/orders%20-%20249th%20to%20st%20albans%20-%20edited.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br />I was so excited when the next morning finally came. The trip to the airport in Japan was the reverse of my trip to the hospital; ambulance to the helipad, the medevac helicopter ride to the airport and then an ambulance to the medevac plane. The plane was laid out pretty much like the one I took from Vietnam to Japan, but only larger. There were racks to hold the stretchers and seats for the amblatory. I was on a stretcher which was hung in a rack just like the last flight.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/1600/medevac%20plane.2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/320/medevac%20plane.0.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br />The flight home to New York was far from non-stop.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/1600/TRIP%20HOME.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/400/TRIP%20HOME.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br />The first leg of the trip was from Tokyo, Japan to a military airbase in Anchorage Alaska. We stopped here for refueling. Everyone had to disembark during refueling except the patients that were unable to walk, like me. I was near the doorway in the plane so every time someone came in or out, a freezing cold blast of air hit us. I asked one of the airmen what the temperature was outside. He joked that they were having a warm spell, -20 degrees F (-29 degrees C).<br /><br />After about an hour, we took off for either Travis Air Force Base near San Francisco, California or to Andrews Air Force Base in Washington DC. My orders said I was to go to Travis, but I don’t remember that stop. I just remember landing in Washington DC. I may have slept through the stop in California, because I was given pain medication shots every four hours due to the rigors of the flight and having to lay on the stretcher for all those hours.<br /><br />We did eventually land at Andrews Air Force Base at night sometime. I don’t remember what time though. I do remember we were all taken off the plane, but I’m not sure if I stayed in Washington overnight or put on a flight right away for the short trip to New York City. I was probably put on the flight to New York City right away, because the paperwork I have says I was admitted on 6 December 1968 at 2125 hours (9:25 PM).<br /><br />The reason I’m not sure about the stops, is because of my confusion looking at the timeline I put together when I looked at all the paperwork I've saved. I left Japan on 3 December 1968 in the afternoon sometime and arrived at St. Albans, Queens, New York at 2125 hours on 6 December 1969. Considering that Japan is a day ahead, I left Japan in the middle of the night on 2 December New York time, but I didn’t arrive in New York until 6 December, which would be four days later. That’s not possible because I wasn’t in route that long. So who knows, and lets just forget it. What I do know is that I was admitted to St. Albans on 6 December 1968 at 2125 hours (9:25 PM). These are a couple of old pictures of St. Albans from 1948, but it still looked the same twenty years later. (Hey, I was born in 1948)<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/1600/ST%20ALBANS%20hosp%201.0.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/200/ST%20ALBANS%20hosp%201.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a> <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/1600/ST%20ALBANS%20hosp%202.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/400/ST%20ALBANS%20hosp%202.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /></div><br /><br />The day after I was admitted, I weighed myself on a scale that was in the bathroom, I only weighed 112 pounds (52 kg). I had been skinny my whole life, but this was ridiculous.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/1600/St%20Albans%20Naval%20Hosp%2012-69.%20%20112%20lbs%20of%20skin%20and%20bones.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/400/St%20Albans%20Naval%20Hosp%2012-69.%20%20112%20lbs%20of%20skin%20and%20bones.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br />I stayed at St. Albans for almost eight weeks. Not all of wounds had healed yet and I needed a lot of physical therapy before I could walk normally. I could get around okay, but just okay at this point.BTExpresshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15804441027821927177noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24856634.post-1147890938216118792006-03-03T14:33:00.001-05:002008-02-25T13:19:58.024-05:00Chapter 24: SHRAPNELWhile I was digging through some old junk researching my stories, I came across something that might interest you. I found an old envelope I’ve been keeping a few pieces of the shrapnel they removed from me at one time or the other, over the last 18 months of my Army service. When I was wounded, I was literally sprayed from head to toe with shrapnel from the exploding claymore mine. All of the large pieces of shrapnel were removed during my surgery in Vietnam right after being wounded and the again when my wounds were eventually closed about ten days later in Japan. Of course, not all of it could be found and removed, especially the small pieces. A few times during those last 18 months I was in the army, a piece would start to bother me, so I’d have it removed.<br /><br />Here are some photographs of the shrapnel I saved. I know there’s not much, but I’m still proud to show it off. I’m certain there was a lot better samples, but I think to ask them to save them for me when I was operated on.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/1600/Shrapnel%203.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/400/Shrapnel%203.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br />Here are close ups so you can get a good look. Yes, the reddish stuff on the gauze pad is my blood.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/1600/Shrapnel%203a.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 361px; height: 198px;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/400/Shrapnel%203a.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/1600/Shrapnel%203c.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/320/Shrapnel%203c.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>This pretty silver one was right on the top of my foot under where the laces of my shoe are. I had this one removed in January while I was still recovering in St. Albans Naval Hospital in Queens New York. Whenever I wore shoes, It bothered me, so I had it removed.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/1600/Shrapnel%203d.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/320/Shrapnel%203d.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>I think this one is the most interesting and my favorite one. See that yellowish stuff sort of coating it on the left? That’s some of my flesh. Cool huh? You can also see some dried blood if you look close.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/1600/Shrapnel%203b.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/320/Shrapnel%203b.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>This little blood tinged, rusty baby was the last piece I had removed and stayed with me for well over a year. It was on the outside of my left arm and I could grab it with my fingers and show it off as that “Piece of Shrapnel Under My Skin”. After a while, all my squeezing showing it off, caused it rise very close to the surface so I had it removed.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/1600/Shrapnel%203e.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7594/1045/320/Shrapnel%203e.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>This isn’t shrapnel, it’s a hunk of flesh that was stuck to gause pad. I saw it when I moved the pieces of shrapnel to scan them. I’m not sure where this came from. Pretty cool, huh?<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Even to this day, I still carry a lot of shrapnel throughout out my body. I’m not allowed to have a MRI. The magnetic field generated by the MRI machine may cause the metal shrapnel to move with unknown results. So they told me I shouldn’t take a chance.<br /><br />I have so much shrapnel left in me, virtually every time I get x-rayed they ask me about it.<br /><br />There was the time I was applying for life insurance and needed to get a chest x-ray. I was still very young and with no medical issues, so I wasn’t worried at all what the x-ray would show. I had the x-ray done and a few days later, the doctor’s office called to tell me there was a problem with my x-ray and the doctor needed to see me right away and could I come in the next day? I asked the nurse what was wrong but she wouldn’t tell me. She said that I needed to see the doctor and he would talk to me about it.<br /><br />I about crapped my pant and my wife freaked out obviously. So all night and the next day, I couldn’t get there until I got out of work the next day, we were very worried about what the x-ray showed. I had been smoking for about 10 years at that point and was a regular pot smoker so lung cancer was my major concern.<br /><br />When I got out of work, I headed straight to the doctor’s office. I was sent to an examination room to wait for the doctor. I was sick to my stomach I was so worried. I waited for what seemed like forever, and then the doctor finally came in. He said hello and then hangs a couple of my chest x-rays on the light board on the wall.<br /><br />The doctor turns on the light on the light board, points at the x-ray and says, “Did you know you have metal fragments in your chest?”<br /><br />(Pause here for the laughter to die down)<br /><br />Well, I didn’t laugh when I heard that. I was fucking pissed off and let the good doctor know exactly how I felt. (I will leave out the profanities) “Of course I know! I was wounded in Vietnam by a mine explosion from head to toe and I still have a lot of shrapnel everywhere in my body, not just my chest!”<br /><br />“I’m sorry, we didn’t know that, he says. “You can go then.”<br /><br />Now, I’m boiling, “Why didn’t you ask me that over the phone? I asked the nurse what was wrong, but she wouldn’t tell. She said I had to come in. My wife and I have been worried sick and that’s all you have to say!”<br /><br />He didn’t really say anything and walked out of the examination room in one direction as I stormed out in the other. I walked over to the desk to check out. There were a couple of people in front of me so I waited for a few minutes. When I was my turn, the nurse looked at my chart and said, “There is no charge. Do you need another appointment?” I just glared at her and stormed out mumbling expletives the entire way.<br /><br />When I got home my wife came out to meet me and asked me what the doctor said. I told her when we got inside and, to this day, I can still hear her saying at the top of her lungs, “WHAT! THAT’S WHY THEY TOLD YOU, YOU HAD TO COME IN? WHY DIDN’T THEY JUST TELL YOU THAT OVER THE PHONE?” (Insert a lot of expletives between the words) You know what, that was the first time since I’d known her, that I heard her curse so much and she did it almost as well as me.BTExpresshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15804441027821927177noreply@blogger.com8